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THE REDS OF THE MIDI 





THE REDS OF THE MIDI 


AN EPISODE OF THE 
FRENCH REVOLUTION 


TRANSLATED FROM THE PROVENgAL OF 

FELIX qRAS 

By CATHARINE A. JANVIER 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
THOMAS A. JANVIER 



NEW YORK AND LONDON 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1912 


o 



Copyright, 1896, 

By D. APPLETON. AND COMPANY. 

// 



Printed in the United States of America 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

publishers’ note and a correspond- 
ence V 

INTRODUCTION xiii 

PROLOGUE I 

I. — IN THE BAD OLD TIMES .... 9 

11 . — DEATH OR SLAVERY 27 

III. — THE REDS OF THE MIDI .... 54 

IV. — “ THE MARSEILLAISE ” . . . .102 

V. — THE MARCH OF THE MARSEILLES BAT- 

TALION 145 

VI. — IN THE STRANGE NEW TIMES . . . 227 

VII. — THE STORMING OF THE KING S CASTLE . 284 


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publlsbers’ IRote 
anb a Corresponbence. 


The Reds of the Midi is the first example 
of Provencal literature to have a first publica- 
tion in America. This interesting circumstance 
is due to the perspicuity and sympathy of the 
author’s friends, Mr. and Mrs. Janvier, to whom 
an acknowledgment is due for a recognition of 
the quality of the tale when in manuscript that 
led them to make it known to its present pub- 
lishers. Their opinion was amply justified by 
the immediate appreciation with which the 
book was received on its publication in the 
spring of 1896. An agreeable outcome of their 
friendly offices lay in the fact that America was 
enabled to introduce this delightful Provencal 
romancer to England, where Mrs. Janvier’s 
translation was published some months later. 
The latter country has followed the former in 
its admiration of M. Gras’s literary art, and 
among the features of this reception has been 


vi 


®!)e Ecbs of tlje iHiM. 


a correspondence with the Hon. W. E. Glad- 
stone. To him Mrs. Janvier sent a copy of the 
American edition, and a phrase which we are 
permitted to quote from his letter of thank? 
illuminates the statesman’s habit of mind: 

''Each country has questions sufficient oj 
more than sufficient for Us citizens; but noth- 
ing can prevent me from taking a true and- 
lively interest in the question of decentralisa- 
tion. 

In acknowledgment of a copy received from 
the English publisher, Mr. Gladstone sent the 
following card : 

Dear Sir : I have read with great and sus^ 
tained interest "The Reds of the South ” which 
you were good enough to present to me. 

Though a work of fiction it aims at paint- 
ing the historical features, and such works if 
faithfully executed throw more light than 
many so-called histories on the true roots and 
causes of the Revolution which are so widely 
and so gravely misunderstood. 

Asa novel it seems to me to be written with 
great skill. 

Yours very faithful, 

W. E. Gladstone, 


IS, 


JJublisliera’ Note. 


vii 


Soon after this note was published M. Gras 
wrote to Mr. Gladstone a letter of such pecul- 
iar and intimate interest that the latter, as will 
be seen at the close of this correspondence, 
advised its publication. Acting upon this 
suggestion, Mrs. Janvier has very kindly trans- 
lated M. Gras’s letter, which is as follows : 

To THE Hon. William Eivart Gladstone. 

Sir : I felt myself highly honoured when I 
read in a London newspaper the opinion that 
you have expressed in regard to my work, ‘ ‘ Les 
Rouges du Midi, * ' translated into English by 
Mrs. Catharine A. Janvier ; and I appreciate 
fully the importance of your judgment as it is 
summed up in this passage of your letter to Mr. 
Heinemann: ''Such works, if faithfully exe- 
cuted, throw more light than many so-called 
histories on the true roots and causes of the 
Revolution, which are so widely and so greatly 
misunderstood. 

Permit me to take the very great liberty of 
placing before you, in regard to the facts and 
documents whereon my historical novel has 
been based, some explanations which probably 
will lessen the reservation implied in the phrase 
"if faithfully executed. 

As regards the facts, I have them partly 


QL\\e i^eb0 of tl)e iUibi. 


viii 


from Pascal himself ; partly from my grand- 
father Dominique, who is dead ; and partly 
from my mother, who still is living at the age of 
ninety-one years. My mother many times has 
described to me the scene in the hospital at Male- 
mort when the Papalist Royalists, disguised as 
Penitents, came to assassinate the Liberals. The 
incident of the beating of Pascal's father was 
founded upon an actual occurrence in the life 
of my own great-grandfather. My father's 
grandfather, although only a simple peasant 
of Malemort, owned a mule that served him in 
bringing home his harvest from the fields. One 
day he and his mule were on the road when 
the Marquis de Gadagne passed by on horse- 
back. The road being narrow, my great-grand- 
father and his mule got down into the ditch 
that the whole width of the way might be left 
clear. But because he had not moved aside as 
briskly as he should have done, the Marquis 
lashed him twice in the face with his riding 
whip, and so sharply that for days afterward 
his face bore the marks of the blows. My 
great-grandfather's family was very fearful 
of the possible outcome of this encounter ; and 
for several weeks, in dread that he might be 
given the strappado and sent to prison, he lay 
closely hid. Nor wefe occurrences of this sort 


J)nbU0l)ers’ Note. 


ix 


unusual when a noble, in his carriage or on 
horseback, met a peasant on the road. Our 
illustrious poet Frederic Mistral, with whom 1 
was talking one day of these brutal doings of 
the great lords to the common country-folk, 
told me that his own grandfather had re- 
ceived from a passing noble almost precisely 
such a way-side lashing in the face as my 
great-grandfather received from the Marquis 
de Gadagne. 

As regards documents, there may be seen in 
the Avignon Library the ordinance of the Pope's 
Vice Legate, approved by the King of France : 
which punishes by the strappado, by the gal- 
leys, and by death, according to the good 
pleasure of the Legate " ' (selon le bon plaisir du 
Ugat) the slightest infraction of the law — such 
as to-day would be punished by a fine of a franc. 
Farther there exists the correspondence of Bar - 
baroux : which irrefutably establishes the fact 
that Santerre, under pretext of illness y played 
fast and loose with his promise to help in the 
attach on the Tuilleries ; that he did not take 
any part in it ; and that he did hold aloof in 
readiness, had it miscarried, to give his sup- 
port to the King. This correspondence also 
proves that Petion was watched during the ac- 
tion, in order to prevent his intervening to stop 


X 


®l)e Eebe of tl)e iHibi. 


the decisive movement started by the Marseil- 
lais. 

What would have come to pass had that 
day of the tenth of August brought defeat to 
the Marseilles Battalion, and to the insurgent 
battalions of the Faubourg de Gloire and the 
Faubourg Saint- Mar ceau ? I believe that the 
Revolution would have been forever lost, that 
we should have had the foreign invasion in 
!793 ; that Bonaparte never would have been 
Napoleon I. 

To sum up : My purpose was not to write 
history in the full sense of the word, but to 
prove by means of a simple historical novel 
that it was the men of the South who were the 
first to rise up against despotism, and that to 
them the triumph of the Revolution was due. 
And to prove also that from them came the 
first protest against the errors and the violence 
and the excesses of the Reign of Terror. 

In conclusion, I have only to apologi^y for 
my encroachment upon your valuable time, and 
to beg you to accept the homage of my respectful 
salutations. 


Avignon, 1896. 


Felix Gras. 


|)ubli0l)ers’ Note. 


xi 


On receiving this letter, Mr. Gladstone sent 
a reply, which follows, making the suggestion 
which is now acted upon. 

Hawarden, Chester, Sept . 5, 1896 , 

Dear Sir : I have to thank you for your 
most interesting letter. 

But I desire besides returning my thanks 
to offer a suggestion. It is that that letter, or 
some corresponding statement, should be pre- 
fixed at any rate to the English translation 
of your work. It would I am confident add 
greatly to the interest of your remarkable nar- 
rative. 

In England, and I suppose in other coun- 
tries, we are taught from youth up to look with 
horror upon the excesses of the French Revo- 
lution. Books like yours will teach us that the 
principal blame due to those excesses lies with 
the system and the men who had been at work 
for generations before to efface from the mind 
of the nation the idea of law, of public, civil 
and personal right. 

I have the honour to remain dear sir your 
most faithful and humble servant 

W. £. Gladstone. 


Mons. Gras. 


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INTRODUCTION. 


In all French history there is no more in- 
spiring episode than that with which M. Gras 
deals in this story : the march to Paris, and the 
doings in Paris, of that Marseilles Battalion 
made up of men who were sworn to cast down 
*‘the tyrant” and who “knew how to die.” 
And he has been as happy, 1 think, in his 
choice of method as in his choice of subject. 
Had his hero been a grown man, or other than 
a peasant, there would have been more reason- 
ing in the story and less directness. But this 
delightful peasant-boy Pascalet — so simple and 
brave and honest and altogether lovable — 
knows very little about reasoning. To him 
the French Revolution is but the opportunity 
that he has longed for to avenge the wrongs 
done to his peasant father; and he is eager to 
capture “the King’s Castle” and to overthrow 
“the tyrant” because he understands — though 
vaguely : for the Castle he believes to be only a 

xiii 


XIV 


Eebs of tl)e iflibi. 


day’s march across the mountains* from Avi- 
gnon, and the tyrant is a very hazy concept in 
his little mind — that somewhere along these 
lines of spirited action harm will come to the 
particular Marquis against whom his grievance 
lies. And so he joins the Marseilles Battalion 
and goes with it on its conquering way ; and 
through his uninstructed, but very wide open, 
eyes we see all that happens on, and all that 
flows from, that heroic march. Nor are the 
standards and convictions which accompanied 
the action changed in the narration. Pascalet 
has become old Pascal ; but he still is a peas- 
ant, and he still regards the events which he 
tells about from the peasant’s point of view. 

It is this point of view, with its necessarily 
highly objective scheme of treatment, which 
gives to M. Gras’s story a place entirely apart 
from all the fiction of the French Revolution 
with which I am acquainted. Ordinarily — be- 
cause it is so much easier to do — writers of 
stories of this period prefer to make them with 
Aristocrats for heroes and heroines; and, done 
that way, it certainly is very easy indeed to ex- 
cite sympathy and to achieve lurid dramatic 
effect. But the more difficult way that M. 
Gras has chosen, and in choosing has cast 
aside deliberately so much of the easily-manip- 


Sntrobttcti0n. 


XV 


ulated machinery of ordinary romance, seems 
to me to lead to far more realistic and also to 
far more artistic results. His epitome of the 
motive-power of the Revolution in the feelings 
of one of its individual peasant parts is the 
very essence of simplicity and directness; and 
equally simple and direct is his method of pre- 
sentment. Old Pascal goes straight ahead with 
his recital of personal incident and of the scraps 
of historic fact which have come, more or less 
accurately, to his personal knowledge because 
he was a part of them himself; and his rare 
attempts at explanation of the undermeaning 
of events is but the echo of the popular senti- 
ment of the time- in which he lived. The 
author always is out of sight in the back- 
ground. Even in the instances when a side- 
light is necessary it comes with an absolute 
naturalness in the shape of question or com- 
ment from the chorus — from one or another of 
the delightful little company in the Shoemak- 
er’s shop to which the story is told. This 
method has the largeness and the clearness of 
the Greek drama. The motives are distinct. 
The* action is free and bold. The climax is in- 
evitable. Even allowing for my natural preju- 
dice in favour of the work of a very dear friend, 

1 think that 1 am right in holding this story in 
3 


XVI 


Sri)e Ee 50 of tlic illibi. 


high esteem as an unusual and excellent work 
of art. 

A leading motive with the author has been 
to do justice to a body of men that history has 
treated very unfairly. For more than a century 
the Battalion that marched from Marseilles to 
Paris, and there took so large a part in precipi- 
tating the French Revolution, has been very 
generally slandered. French and English his- 
torians, with few exceptions, have united in 
describing it as a band of cut-throats and 
thieves: in part made up of runaway galley- 
slaves from Toulon, and in part of international 
scrapings from the slums of Marseilles. Car- 
lyle, in his time, was almost alone in doing 
partial justice to this company of hot patriots. 
“ Formats they were not, neither was there 
plunder nor danger of it,” he wrote; but 
added, hedgingly: “Men of regular life or the 
best filled purse, they could hardly be.” Yet, 
lacking full knowledge in the premises, his 
Scotch shrewdness withheld him from com- 
mitting himself. “ These Marseillese,” he con- 
cluded, “remain inarticulate, undistinguisha- 
ble in feature; a black-browed mass, full of 
grim fire, who wend there in the hot sultry 
weather: very singular to contemplate. They 


Jntrobuction. 


xvii 


wend; amid the infinitude of doubt and dim 
peril ; they not doubtful : Fate and Feudal Eu- 
'ope, having decided, come girdling in from 
without; they, having also decided, do march 
within. Dusty of face, with frugal refresh- 
nent, they plod onwards; unweariable, not to 
)e turned aside. Such march shall become fa- 
nous. They must . . . strike and be struck; 
nd on the whole prosper, and know how to 
lie.” But he felt that he had not uncovered 
II the truth, and that what remained hidden 
/as worth digging for. Before parting with 
lese vaguely-defined heroes he offered the 
uggestion : “If enlightened Curiosity ever get 
i'ght of the Marseilles Council-Books, will it 
lot perhaps explore this strangest of Municipal 
rocedures ; and feel called to fish up what of 
le Biographies, creditable or discreditable, of 
lese Five hundred and Seventeen (sic), the 
ream of Time has not irrevocably swallowed.” 

Nearly fifty years passed before Carlyle’s 
iggestion was carried out in its entirety ; and 
e two men who then completely cleared up 
is obscure passage in history, Messieurs Jo- 
ph Pollio and Adrien Marcel, did much more 
an explore the Marseilles Council-Books, 
ley carried their search for facts deep and far; 
d the result of their investigations was the 


jcviii 


Eebs of tl)e iflibi. 


documentary history, “Le Bataillon du 
Aout” (Paris. Charpentier. i88i), that 
placed the Marseilles Battalion honourably 
fore the world. As the records show, the 
hundred and sixteen men composing it, dra 
almost wholly from the National Guard of N 
seilles, “were carefully chosen as being th 
whose civicism and probity were guarant 
by the twelve Commissioners named by 
Conseil General ” ; and the few volunteers fr 
neighbouring towns — including, in the T 1 
Company, Louis Vauclair from Avignon — w 
accepted under the same conditions. In 
end, having accomplished the purpose 
which it went to Paris, the Battalion returi 
to Marseilles ; where it was received with c: 
honours (October 22, 1792), and subsequer 
was incorporated into the Army of the P} 
nees. Other battalions were despatched fr 
Marseilles, at later dates, which were less a 
fully chosen and which had records by 
means so good. With these the first Battal 
has been confounded, either by accident or 
tention, and ever since has suffered for tl 
sins. But the men of Marseilles with wh 
Pascalet marched, chanting the Republican i 
them that ever since has been known by tl 
name because they first gave it currency 


Introbuction. xix 


prance, were precisely the simple and honest 
patriots— stern only in the discharge of the 
treat duty which they believed was theirs— 
Whom M. Gras has described. 

The loving touch that is so evident in the 
etting of the story comes naturally, for there 
he author is writing of his own people and 
liis own home. It was in the little town of 
idalemort, a year worse than half a century 
go, that Felix Gras was born. His charming 
i^rologue — even his lament that Fate forbade 
lim to be a shoemaker, and so cut him off 
rom hearing any more of old Pascal’s stories — 
s pure autobiography; and the lightly, and so 
lelightfully, touched-in portraits — the Grand- 
ather, Lou Materoun, the Shoemaker and the 
est, including old Pascal himself — are all direct 
rom life. 

I am confident that M. Gras would have 
lecome a very good shoemaker, had he been 
lermitted to follow the inclination that was so 
trong upon him when he was ten years old. 
Assuredly, he would have given to the prac- 
ice of that gentle and philosophic craft the 
ame energy (though differently applied) that 
las won for him success in law and in litera- 
ure. But as the Department of Vaucluse 


XX 


®l)e Bebs of tl)e iHibi. 


would have lost an excellent Juge de Paix, and 
as the world would have lost a rare poet, it 
is fortunate that his shoemaking aspirations 
were sapped by the judicious interposition of 
the colour-box and the cornet-a-pistons and 
the five little blue volumes telling about the 
War of Troy. 

When his schooling was ended he came 
back to his father’s farm at Malemort; but as 
his passion for hunting (quite as strong now as 
then) led him most outrageously to neglect his 
farm-work in order to go off with his dog and 
gun into the fastnesses of Mont Ventour, he 
presently was despatched — being then twenty 
years old — to Avignon to begin the study 
of the law: from which study farther esca- 
pades into the mountains were not practi- 
cable. 

In his case the ways of the law led into the 
ways of literature very directly. The Avignon 
notary to whom he was articled, Maitre Jules 
Giera, was himself a writer of merit and was 
the brother of Paul Giera, one of the seven 
founders of the Felibrige : the society of Pro- 
ven(;:al men of letters, having for its leaders 
Frederic Mistral and Joseph Roumanille, which 
has developed in the past thirty years so noble a 
literary and moral renascence not only in Prov- ' 


Jfntrobnctian. 


XXI 


ence but throughout the whole of Southern 
France. With one of these leaders, Rouma- 
nille — who had married Rose Anais Gras, his 
sister, the winner of the prize for poetry at the 
Floral Games at Apt in 1862 — he already was 
intimate; and his coming to Avignon and en- 
try into the lawyer’s office, therefore, was his 
entry into the most inspiring artistic society 
that has existed in modern times — that has 
had, indeed, no modern parallel in its vigour 
and hopes and enthusiasms save perhaps in 
the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood; and that has 
had no modern parallel whatever in its far- 
reaching results. His association with such 
companions, with whose aspirations he was 
in close sympathy, quickly produced its natu- 
ral consequences : he accepted law as his pro- 
fession, but he made literature his career. 

He has justified his choice. His first im- 
portant work, an epic poem in twelve cantos, 
'‘Li Carbounie” (1876), treating of the moun- 
tain life for which his affection was so pro- 
found, placed him at the head of the younger 
generation of Felibres; and his succeeding 
epic, “Toloza” (1882), with his shorter poems 
collected under the title “Lou Roumancero 
Prouven^au” (1887), placed him second only 
to the master of all Proven9al poetry. Mistral, 


XXll 


®:i)e Eebs of tl)e Mibi. 


The theme of Toloza ” is the crusade of Simon 
de Montfort against the Albigenses — treated 
with a fervent strength that is in keeping with 
the author’s own fervent love of liberty in per- 
son and in conscience, and with the beauty 
that comes of a poetic temperament equipped 
with easy command of poetic form. It vibrates 
with a very lofty patriotism and with strong 
martial spirit and with a great tenderness, this 
geste provenfale in which the gleaming flitting 
figures of the two dames and the four trouba- 
dours at once enlighten the sombre narrative 
and stand out with a clear brightness against 
the black back-ground of that unholy war. 

His shorter poems have a different and, as 
it seems to me, a still richer flavour. But per- 
haps 1 like them best because it was through 
them that 1 first knew him. Of the volume in 
which they are in part collected, “LouRou- 
mancero Prouven^au,” 1 wrote five years ago: 
“We had read no farther than ‘Lou Papo 
d’ Avignoun ’ and ‘ Lou Baroun de Magalouno ’ 
when our minds were made up that here was 
a singer of ballads whose tongue was tipped 
with fire. They whirled upon us, these bal- 
lads and conquered our admiration at a blow. 
We knew by instinct — what time and greater 
knowledge have shown to be the truth — that 


Introbttction. 


xxiii 


of all the Provengal poets whom we soon were 
to encounter none would set our heart-strings 
more keenly a-thrilling than did this fiery bal- 
lad-maker, Monsieur Gras.” And after our 
meeting had taken place 1 added: “Our ideal 
had not exceeded the reality. As fine and as 
sympathetic as his poems is Felix Gras himself. 
The graciousness of his person, his gentle na- 
ture that is also a most vigorously manly na- 
ture, his quick play of wit, his smile, his voice 
— all were in keeping with, even exceeded, 
what we had hoped to find.” That was five 
years ago. My appreciation of his work is 
fuller, my feeling toward himself is deeper, 
now. 

His prose is the prose of a poet, yet racy 
and strong. As a leading contributor to the 
i^rmana Prouven<^au — of which annual, the 
most important of the periodic publications of 
the Felibres, he has been the editor since Rou- 
manille’s death — he long since won popu- 
larity with a public that judges by high stand- 
ards and that by nature is nicely critical. But 
his finest prose work is included in a volume 
of Avignon stories, “Li Papalino” (1891) which 
have the ring of the novella of Boccaccio’s 
time. In these stories his delicate firmness of 
touch is combined with a brilliancy and clear- 


XXIV 


Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


ness of style that presents his dramatic subjects 
with the sparkle and vivacity of the Italian tale- 
tellers of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries 
— but always with a flavour distinctly his own. 
The Papal Court of Avignon is alive again be- 
fore our eyes : with its gallantries, its tragedies, 
its gay loves and deadly hates, its curious 
veneering of religious forms upon Mediaeval 
tenderness and ferocity. With this period, 
which appeals so strongly to poetic instinct, 
he long has been on terms of commanding 
familiarity ; as not only these stories but many 
of his most fiery shorter poems show. And it 
seems to me, therefore, that not least to be 
commended of the qualities included in his 
literary equipment is the flexibility that has 
enabled him, in the present work, so entirely 
to change his method in order to adapt it to 
the vivid treatment of a subject taken from 
modern times. 

Finally, this prophet is honoured in his own 
country. Since August, 1891 — in succession 
to Roumanille, who succeeded Mistral — Felix 
Gras has been the Capoulie, the official head, 
of the Felibrige. In his election to this office 
he received the highest honour that can be be- 
stowed upon a poet by his brother poets of the 
South of France. 


Sntrobuction. 


XXV 


The present translation has been made di- 
rectly from the Provencal manuscript, under 
the author’s supervision and with the benefit 
of his advice. The only changes from the 
original are a few modifications of expression 
which, while proper enough in the case of 
country-folk speaking a language of Latin 
origin, would jar a little on ears tolerant only 
of the nicety of English speech; and these 
changes the author has approved. Otherwise 
the translation has preserved the letter, and I 
think somewhat of the spirit of the original; 
and 1 can venture to say for it, at least, that it 
has been made with a faithful and a loving 
care. 

Thomas A. Janvier. 

Saint Remy de Provence, 

September i, 189$. 


I 

I 


\ 

I 


THE REDS OF THE MIDI. 


PROLOGUE. 

When our neighbour Pascal, the son of La 
Patine, had grown so very, very old that he 
had begun to nibble into his ninetieth year, his 
dotage came upon him. He, who in the long 
winter evenings had told us from thread to fin- 
ished seam how he marched with the Marseilles 
Battalion up to Paris to besiege King Capet in 
his castle; Pascal, who had told us of all the 
battles of the Empire, from the famous fight at 
the Pyramids to the end of all at Mont-Saint- 
Jean; good old Pascal de la Patine was cer- 
tainly in his dotage. 

Over and. over again he kept saying: “I 
shall die soon ; I certainly am going to die ; and 
when I die my brother Lange will die too — 
and then who will take care of the mule ? " 

Poor Pascal! It was sad to see in such a 
plight the man who had dazzled us with his 
1 


2 


Eebs of ll)c iHibi. 


epic tales, lasting the winter long. Sometimes, 
even, he would improvise in verse in a slow 
rhythm, with only here and there a rhyme. 
Through a whole evening he would chant us 
an episode of the Revolution; or of some 
grand killing of English or Germans or Rus- 
sians in the time gone by. 

I still can see him: always seated in the 
same place, on the middle of the bench that 
ran across the whole width of the wall at the 
back of the shoemaker’s shop — the meeting 
place to which all the neighbours came to 
spend their evenings. 

The shoemaker and his apprentice used be- 
tween them a single lamp; but each had his 
separate vihole, hanging before him by a 
leather thong, and the reddish lamp-light pass- 
ing through the globe of clear water cast upon 
the sole or shoe on which he was working a 
brilliant streak of light as clear as sunlight. 
The good stove, as red as a poppy, made the 
room oven-hot. We all sweltered there com- 
fortably, simmering like a stew. in an earthen 
tian. And when old Pascal, passing into one 
of his bard-like moods, fell to chanting his 
story, then even the shoemaker and his ap- 
prentice, braving the angry looks of the shoe- 
maker’s wife, turned their backs to the work- 


Prologue. 


3 


table and for that evening stopped tap-tapping 
on their soles and like the rest of us listened 
open-mouthed with eyes as big as barn-doors 
and ears like dish-covers. 

1 know now that the supreme joy of my 
life came to me then, when 1 was nine years 
old: when as each evening ended and bed- 
time came I longed and longed for the morrow 
— that I might hear, as 1 sat in my corner, on 
my little bench with the cat, the end of the 
battle left half-fought the night before. 

Therefore was it a mortal blow to me when, 
being come to ten years, I was sent to the little 
seminary of La Sainte Garde to begin my school- 
ing. 1 even now can plainly see my father’s 
cart harnessed to our old sorrel horse — who in 
all his long life never once had kicked. I see 
it plainly as it bumps over the stony road 
I through the garrigms, carrying my mattrass in 
a blue-and-white checked cover, and my pig- 
skin trunk with stiff silky bristles standing out 
all over it. I see our pretty blue cart — in 
which, in our stable, I often had played see- 
I saw — standing at last in the seminary court- 
yard ; while two men, dressed like gentlemen 
in frock coats, take out its load, 
i It was then that my sorrow sharply began. 
My father took me up in his arms and gave me 



4 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


i 


two big kisses (even to-day I can feel his rough 
beard against my soft cheeks) ; he put a great 
handful of sous into my hand — and then he left 
me! Victor the door-keeper, who had a little' 
pointed beard on his chin that made him look) 
like a good-natured goat, came with his great] 
bunch of keys and, cric-crac, locked the door! j 

As long as daylight lasted, things went on 
pretty well. 1 counted and recounted my sous, 
letting them drop one by one so as to show 
them off. 1 made the acquaintance of a dozen 
little fellows shut in like myself that morning. 
But after supper, when night fell, when 1 — alas, 
poor me! — had to go to bed all alone, 1 thought' 
of my dear mother who when 1 came home 
dead with sleep from the shoemaker’s always 
helped me untie my shoes ; and 1 thought of old 
Pascal de la Ratine, whom 1 could plainly see 
sitting on the bench telling his beautiful stories. 
The tears burst forth, pouring down my cheeks 
to my pillow. 1 cried and cried; until at last 
sleep, the childish sleep that nothing disturbs, 
took possession of me and held me softly in 
her arms. 

When 1 awoke, the idea that all day long 
I could not see my mother, and that again, 
when night-fall came, 1 could not spend the 
evening with old Pascal, tormented me and 


JJrobgue. 


5 


made me dull and unhappy. The next night 
1 cried still more, and the next day 1 was still 
more dull. 

At the end of a week my father and mother 
came to see if 1 had eaten and slept as 1 should, 
and if 1 were getting used to my new life. 
How 1 dismayed them when 1 told them that 1 
could not eat, and that I wanted to go home ! 

“But, my boy, surely you see that you 
must study. You must learn arithmetic and 
all the rest, otherwise what will become of you 
when you grow up ? ” said my father. 

“ 1 say 1 want to go home. I know quite 
enough.” 

“What do you know, child You know 
just nothing at all! ” 

“ 1 know how to read.” 

“You can read, yes. Well, what then 

“ 1 know how to cipher.” 

“ That’s all very well, as far as it goes; but 
you must learn latin, greek — how do I know 
what more! ” 

“ 1 don’t want to — 1 want to go home with 
you! ” 

“Now see here, what do you want to be 
— a doctor, a priest, or a lawyer?” 

“None of them.” 

“You want to be a farmer? That’s a 
3 


6 


®l)e Hcbs of tl)e iUibi. 


poor trade, son. You must get rid of that 
notion.” 

'‘No, I don’t want to be a farmer — I want 
to go home! ” 

All this time my mother said nothing. She 
merely nodded her head, while she kept on 
peeling chestnuts for me — which I munched 
while contradicting my father. Until at last, 
fairly out of all patience, my father cried : 
‘ ‘ Speak out then ! If you don’t want to be doc- 
tor, priest, lawyer nor farmer, what do you 
want to be ” 

“Well, if really you wish me to tell,” said 
I, looking down, “I want — I want to be a 
shoemaker! ” 

“Oh plague take you!” said my father, 
clapping his rough hands together, “a shoe- 
maker! That beats all! Don’t you know that 
shoemakers always smell of shoemaker’s wax ? 
Come, come, I think the blood in your veins 
must be dying out. What could have put it 
into your head to be a shoemaker ? ” 

But 1, ashamed of having betrayed my in- 
most thoughts, did not dare to answer. I 
dared not say that it was because I longed to 
listen forever to the stories old Pascal de la 
Patine would tell during all the long evenings 
to come. What would I not have been will- 


Prologue. 


7 


ing to become, so that I might ever hear such 
stories ! 

Well, my father, knowing that time would 
settle all, persuaded me to remain a few days 
longer at the school ; and promised me that if 
I could not get used to the school-life he would 
come for me at the end of the month, and that 
if then I still was absolutely determined to be- 
come a shoemaker I should be apprenticed to 
our neighbour, in whose house I had passed 
so many happy evenings. But in order to 
reconcile me to my new school he said that I 
might study painting — which at that time was 
my great passion — and also music; and then 
and there he ordered for me a colour-box and 
a cornet-a-pistons: Mr. Trouchet, the steward, 
was to have them brought from Carpentras the 
very next day. 

Dazzled by the promise of these delights, I 
felt as if a great weight were lifted off my 
heart; and, rising on tip-toe, I whispered in 
my mother’s ear: “Please send me the five 
little blue books that I read three years ago 
when 1 had the whooping-cough — the books 
that tell about Ulysses and Achilles.” 

“Yes, yes, I know” said my mother, 
“the War of Troy. 1 will send them to- 
morrow.” 


8 


Ql\)c Eebe of tl)e iHibi. 


Then my dear people gave me another 
handful of sous, and filled my pockets with 
boiled chestnuts. They kissed me ; and then, 
cric-crac, Victor the door-keeper with the kind 
goat’s face barred the door behind them — and 
thoughtfully 1 returned to my lessons. 

Nevertheless, the paint-box, the cornet-a- 
pistons, and my promised five little blue books, 
filled my heart with joy: and it is to those 
three things that 1 owe my escape from having 
become a cobbler for the rest of my days. 
Naturally, 1 grew accustomed to the seminary; 
and great Homer with his War of Troy drove 
old Pascal out of my mind. 

And yet — often 1 ask myself: Would it not 
have been better to have persisted ? Had 1 be- 
come a shoemaker, how many good stories 
might 1 not have told! And now 1 can tell 
you only one: the one that 1 heard in the 
happy year which ended when 1 put on 
trowsers with suspenders and began my school- 
ing — and so left shoemaking forever behind ! 


CHAPTER I. 


IN THE BAD OLD TIMES. 

That evening the party was complete. I, 
in my corner on the little bench with the cat, 
said not a word; but 1 thought to myself: *‘lf 
only some one would ask old Pascal to tell a 
story! Yesterday he finished telling us the 
battle of Mont Saint-Jean; to-day, perhaps, he 
will tell us nothing.” 

just then Lou Materoun, as he pressed with 
his thumb into his clay pipe a piece of amadou 
that smelt sweet as it burned, said: “IVe 
always wanted to ask you, Pascal, how it was 
that you, a peasant from Malemort, happened 
to be in the Battalion from Marseilles that went 
up to Paris the year of the Revolution ? That 
always has puzzled me.” 

1 “It was poverty, young fellow,” old Pascal 
answered in his rich clear voice; “it was just 
poverty. But if you have the patience to listen 
I’ll tell you about it from first to last.” 

We knew then that a story was coming; 


lO 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e Mibi. 


and so we all settled ourselves comfortably to 
listen, and old Pascal began : 

Why are people always grunting, now-a- 
days? They actually grunt because of over- 
plenty ! Now-a-days each peasant has his own 
corner of earth. He who has earth has bread, 
and he who has bread has blood. I, who am 
speaking to you, was twelve years old before 
ever 1 had seen either kneading-trough, bread- 
hutch, oil-jar or wine-keg; things owned 
now-a-days by the poorest peasant in the land. 
In the one room of my father’s hut — it was 
more a hut than a cottage — were two cradle- 
like boxes filled with oat-straw in which we 
slept, the cooking-pot in the middle of the 
room hanging from a roof-beam, and a big 
chopping-block — and that was all ! That was 
just all! 

We were lodged in this hut, which stood a 
little above the village of Malemort and close 
to the Ch^eau de la Garde, because we be- 
longed — with the other farm animals — to the 
estate of La Garde, owned by the Marquis 
d’Ambrun. My father gathered the acorns from 
the oaks of the Marquis, and was allowed to 
keep the half of them for his pay ; and we also 
had the right to till two scraps of land, from 


Hn tl)e i 3 ab 01 b ®itnc0. 


II 


which we got enough beans and vetches and 
herbs to keep us from actually starving to death 
— we three and ‘all our fleas. You will know 
how we lived when I tell you that not until I 
got away from La Garde altogether did 1 taste 
anything as good as a bit of fresh-baked soft 
bread dipped in soup made of rancid pork. 

My people baked bread but once a year. 
When the day for making it came my father 
and mother went down to the village and 
there, husks and all, kneaded the coarse flour 
made of the rye and beans and acorns we had 
managed to collect in the course of the year. 
It was on the very block that you can see in 
front of our stable, the one on which I cut fod- 
der for the mule, that each morning my father 
with his big axe chopped up our food for the 
day. By the end of the year the bread was so 
hard that it nicked the edge of the axe. 

The first bit of white bread that ever I 
tasted was given me one day as I passed in 
front of the Chateau by Mademoiselle Adeline, 
who was of the same age as myself And for 
giving it to me she got a round scolding 
from her mother, the Marquise. 

“Adeline, Adeline!” cried the Marquise, 
“ Why do you give your white bread to that 
little wretch ? You must not teach him what 


12 


®l)e Ects of t\)z illibi. 


white bread is, or the day may come when he 
will snatch it out of your mouth!” and then 
turning to me, she went on : “ Get out of here, 
little beast! Get out ! Hurry — or I will set 
the dogs on you!” And I, gripping fast my 
bit of bread, scampered off to our hut as fast 
as 1 could go. That piece of bread was the 
most delicious thing I have eaten in all my life. 
And yet the cruel words of the Marquise made 
it bitter with a drop of gall. 

Another time I was worse served. I was 
coming home from a hunt for some magpies’ 
nests that I knew of in the poplars in the valley 
of the Nesque. It was ten o’clock; and, as I 
had eaten nothing that day, hunger was twist- 
ing my empty insides. As I passed behind 
the Chateau, skirting the stables and sheep- 
folds, I saw in the gutter a fine cabbage-stalk. 
My mouth watered and I ran to pick it up ; but 
the Marquis’s sow with her litter also saw it at 
the same time, and ran as quick as I did. The 
swine-herd, a cruel fellow, when he saw me 
stretch out my arm gave me such a whack 
with his stick that he took away my breath. 

I left the cabbage-stalk to the pigs and ran as 
hard as I could run, for the brute would have 
beaten me to a jelly; and as I made off I heard 
the Marquis calling from his window: “Well 


3n tl)e Bab ®Ib Simes. 


13 


done! Well done! What is that little rascal 
doing there ? Does he want to take the food 
out of the mouths of my pigs ? Vermin that 
they are, those peasants ! If they could but get 
at us, they would eat us up alive! ” 

That day another great drop of bitterness 
fell into my heart. 

So, too, when Monsieur le Marquis, Ma- 
dame le Marquise and Monsieur Robert, their 
son — who was Cavalier du Roy — chanced one 
day to pass before our hut and 1 saw my old 
father and my old mother kneel down on the 
threshold, just as if the Host were going by, 
shame devoured me; and it seemed as if a red 
hot iron were pressing into the pit of my stom- 
ach — it hurt me so to keep back my rage. 

“You wretched 'boy, ” called out my father 
as he rose from his knees, “ the next time I’ll 
take good care that you kneel to our kind mas- 
ter!”; and to know how good and how sim- 
ple my father was made the fire, not of God, 
burn the more fiercely within me. 

The only one of those living in the Chateau 
whom 1 could look upon with pleasure and 
salute with respect was little Adeline, the 
young lady who gave me the piece of white 
bread. She had gentle eyes, and smiled at me 
each time that we chanced to meet. But as 


14 


®l)e Ecbs of t\)c iHibi. 


she grew up it seemed to me that little by little 
her smiles grew fainter. Her eyes, 1 know, 
were just as gentle, only 1 dared not look at 
her any more. 

One November evening during All Saint’s 
week, while we were in our hut around a pot 
of dried beans — the last left from our store for 
the year — my father said: “To-morrow, son, 
we must begin to gather our acorns in the 
Nesque for the winter. Times are going to be 
hard with us. 1 don’t know all that is taking 
place, but I have been told that in Avignon 
people are killing each other off like flies; and 
there is the Revolution in Paris, and Monsieur 
le Marquis and all the family are going to help 
the King of France, who is in great danger.” 

This was the first time I had heard of the 
King of France, but instantly the thought came 
to me: “ If I could only fight him, this King of 
France whom the Marquis is going to defend! ” 
How old was 1 then ? 1 don’t know. 1 never 
knew exactly — the records of baptism, you 
see, were burned ; but 1 must have been thir- 
teen, perhaps fourteen years old. Certainly, 
my father’s words astonished me — but as 
much, perhaps, by their number as by what 
he told. He always had a short tongue, poor 
man. 


Jn tl)c Bttb 01b QUimcB. 


15 


The next morning I had forgotten all about 
the King of France when, before day-break, we 
started to gather our harvest of acorns. It was 
fearful weather. The ground was frozen two 
spans deep; a cutting wind was blowing; 
from time to time snow-squalls burst out of 
the sullen sky. The dawn was just breaking 
when we reached the ravine of the Nesque, 
bordered by great oaks: through which the 
wind blew sharply and tossed hither and 
thither their leaves — that looked as if they had 
been turned into red copper by the cold. Ex- 
cepting the red oak-leaves, everything on the 
earth and above it was grey. The sky was 
one mass of even grey cloud, stretching from 
east to west just like a piece of grey felt. 
Flocks of linnets, red-breasts, yellow-hammers, 
and other little birds came down from the 
mountains — flying close to the ground or, with 
feathers all fluffed up, huddling together in the 
stubble or bushes. When the poor little things 
act that way, it always is bitter cold. 

Let any one try to gather acorns in cold 
weather with numb hands! Among the peb- 
bles in the dry bed of the river the shining 
acorns, no bigger than olives, so slide and slip 
through your fingers that it takes a whole big 
half day to gather two pecks of them. My 


i6 


Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


poor father, I can see him now ! As he crouched 
down and leaned forward he left between his 
skimpy greenish stuff-jacket and his buckled 
breeches a great gap, where the sharp edge of 
his lean spine showed plainly through his 
coarse worn-out shirt; and his rough woollen 
stockings were full of holes, and so worn off 
at the heels that his feet were naked in his 
wooden shoes stuffed with dry grass. 

The furious cold wind, which whipped 
about and whirled the copper-red leaves, 
whistled in the osiers; and in the hollows of 
the rocks it howled and roared like some great 
fearful horn. I hugged myself close, my skin 
all cracked with the cold, and thought of the 
good time to come when, sheltered behind a 
rock, we could eat, with our hunger for a 
sauce, the hard nubbin of black bread which 
my father that morning had chopped off for us 
on the block with the big axe. 

We were working hard in silence — for the 
very poor never have much to say — when all 
of a sudden 1 heard the hounds of the Marquis 
in full cry. They were at the other end of the 
ravine, on the slope of the mountain. I jumped 
up and stared with all my might. When one 
is young there is nothing so delightful as to see 
a hare chased by a pack of dogs. I saw them 


In tl)e jSab 0ib 


17 


a long, long way off: the hare, light as smoke, 
was far ahead. From time to time, she would 
squat on her haunches, listening, and then 
would be off again ; and at last 1 saw her run 
down toward the dry bed of the stream. The 
hounds, in full cry, came tearing after her. 
When they over-ran the scent, they quickly 
tried back and found it again. Where the 
hare had stopped to listen, they snuffed around 
and yelped the louder. The pack was spread 
all across the slope. In front were the large 
black-and-tan hounds, their ears a span long, 
who easily over-leapt bushes and openings in 
the ground. Then came the smaller and 
heavier dogs, slower but surer. Then, away 
behind the rest, the beagles with their short 
sharp cry — good beasts for taking the hare in 
her form, but slow-going, because their little 
twisted legs are no good for jumping and they 
have to go round even the bunches of wild 
thyme. 

1 held my breath, for the hare was almost 
on us and was going to pass right in front of 
me. But just as 1 picked up a stone — sbisto! 
she saw me! She doubled like a flash, with 
one spring she was over the Nesque, and with 
another she was up the mountain side and safe 
in the woods — so good-bye to my hare ! The 


1 8 of tl)e iHibi. 


dogs came on quickly, overrunning the scent 
at the point where she had doubled, but pick- 
ing it up again in no time. And then the 
whole pack in full cry swept on down the hill- 
side until they were lost in the forest far off 
among the ravines, and only their cry came 
ringing back to us faintly from the distance. 

My father had not noticed any part of all 
this. Without even lifting his head he had 
kept on gathering the acorns with his stiff fin- 
gers. As I still stood there, open-mouthed, 
all of a sudden on the slope of the mountain 
behind me I heard a noise of rolling stones. I 
turned and saw Monsieur Robert, the Cavalier 
du Roy, running down toward us; holding in 
one hand his dog- whip and in the other his 
gun. He rushed down on us like a wounded 
wild boar — it is the only thing I can think ot 
as savage as he was then ! My poor father at 
once dropped down on his knees to him, as 
was the peasant habit of those times; but the 
brute, without a word, gave him such a blow 
across the face with his dog-whip that he 
knocked him to the ground. Seeing this, 

I ran to the side of the ravine and, kicking 
off my sabots, began to climb up the rocks 
— clinging with my hands and with my feet 
too. I heard every blow that lashed my poor 


I 


Sn tl)e Bttb (2)15 ®imes. 


19 


father, and I heard the brute calling out to 
him : “ Dirty beast of a peasant! I’ll teach you 
to spoil my hunting! ” — and then more blows. 

In the mean time the game-keeper had 
come up: a huge man who could only speak 
very bad French. Folks said he was a German. 
He had a name no one could say — a Dutch 
name fit to drive you out of the house — and, 
as he had to be called something, we called 
him Surto. This beast also began to hammer 
my poor father, who was writhing on the 
ground like a half crushed worm. 

I had stopped on a high rock from which I 
could see the two monsters at their cruel work. 
I picked up a stone as big as my head and 
I threw it. The stone whistled through the air, 

! just brushing against the game-keeper’s ear, 

I and fell hard and heavy on Monsieur Robert’s 
j toes. 

I ‘‘Aie!” he yelled, and turning saw me. 

I Off went both barrels of his gun. The shot 
j whizzed round me, but I plunged into the 
wood — and then it was : Catch me who can ! 

I was only a child — but I understood my 
danger. I hid myself in the depths of the 
woods and did not dare go back home. Shiv- 
ering, almost dead with the cold, I ate my bit 
of bread crouching in a thicket and a little shel- 


20 


Hebs of tl)c iiXibi. 


tered behind a rock. The bread was so hard 
that I had to break it with a stone. I softened 
it with my tears; for while eating it I was 
thinking of my father as I had seen him with 
his face all covered with blood, and dreading 
that he had been killed. And my mother, 
what would she think when 1 did not come 
back to the hut ? And when she saw her poor 
man, her Pascal, crushed and bleeding.? 
“Ah!” sighed 1, looking at the stone 1 held, 
“ Ah, how happy this stone is. How 1 would 
like to be this stone, for then 1 would not suffer 
any more ” — and my heart hurt me as if it was 
cut with a knife. 

Twilight was coming on. In winter it does 
not last long; the night comes all at once. 
The wind blew sharper and sharper. Far off 
on the edge of the sky a long red line streaked 
the grey clouds and showed that the sun was 
setting. Then the sky and plains and moun- 
tains, which all day long had been dull grey, 
turned to a violet; while the trees and the 
naked bushes and the rocks took on a reddish 
tone. The wind dropped a moment, paying 
honour to the setting sun ; a fox barked on the 
opposite slope — and then suddenly all was 
dark. 

I ventured out of my lair and climbed the 


-Jn tl)e i3ab QDlb ^intcs. 


21 


bushy side of the ravine. Just as I reached the 
top, brrrou! a covey of partridges flew off from 
right under my feet with a sound like a load of 
cobblestones tumbling out of a cart. The start 
they gave me was soon over ; and then, shiv- 
ering and blue with the cold, I went down 
into the plain. 

At almost every step I halted and looked 
around. The smallest rock, a tuft of thyme, a 
live-oak bush, seemed a crouching man on the 
outlook — perhaps Surto with his gun ! I was 
more afraid of that man than of all the wolves 
on the mountains put together. Although the 
wind still roared and howled, the stones rattling 
under my feet seemed to me to make a tremen- 
dous noise. The night was very dark — not a 
star to be seen ; the dull grey sky still spread 
over everything. Yet I could see pretty well 
around me. We the poor, the very poor, can 
•see in the dark. The flocks were all in their 
folds, it was so cold. But as I went along the 
slope above the Nesque, not far above the Cha- 
teau, it seemed to me that I could hear the 
pigs grunting; and I certainly could see the 
light carried by the swine-herd — so it must 
have been about pig-feeding time. 

I had but a few steps more to take in order 
to reach the high rock from which I had thrown 
4 


22 


Eebe of tl)e iHibi. 


the stone at Monsieur Robert I was burning 
to get there, that I might know whether or not 
my father was lying dead at the bottom of the 
ravine, beaten to death by those two beasts. 
I walked softly along, but the little stones still 
made too much noise under my feet and 1 got 
down and crawled silently on all fours. I 
reached the overhang of the rock and craned 
over into the ravine. 1 stared and stared until 
I could see no more, but all that I could make 
out was a long black line and a long white line 
coasting the foot of the mountain. The giant 
oaks which bordered the Nesque made the 
black line, and the white line was the dry bed 
of the watercourse with its smooth white 
stones. 

When I was quite certain that my father 
was not lying there, to be food for the wolves, 
I drew softly back on hands and knees. Still 
filled with dread, 1 went down into the ravine 
through the holly and thorny scrub-oak bushes; 
pushing through the thickets, for 1 did not 
want to follow any beaten path to the Nesque. 
I was afraid of that great monster of a game- 
keeper who somewhere, I was sure, was 
watching for me as if 1 had been a fox — and I 
thought that the whistling of the wind and 
the rattling of the whirling leaves would keep 


Sn tl)e Sab 01b STimes. 


23 


any one from hearing the noise of the holly 
and the thorny oak bushes which caught hold 
of me, and of the stones which rattled down 
under my feet. 

When I reached the border of the Nesque 
I looked out between two tufts of bushes to 
right and to left, but neither saw nor heard 
i anything out of the way. And, what gave 
I me still more comfort, lying there where I had 
kicked them off, so that I might run the faster, 
were my sabots! Then — believe me or no as 
best pleases you — in order to give myself cour- 
age, 1 made the sign of the cross upon my 
breast and said the only prayer my mother had 
taught me : 

Great Saint John of the golden mouth 
Watch over the sleeping child. 

! From harm protect him should he go 

To play around the pond. 

In forests, too, take care of him 
, Against the tooth of wolf. 

Forever and ever be it so, 

i Fair Saint John who hast all my heart. 

— and then 1 felt that I would be cared for and 
was safe 1 

With one spring I reached and put on my 
sabots, and then flew like lightning through 
the stubble and brush and climbed steep slopes 


24 ' 


!^eb0 of tl)e iitlibi. 


like a lizard. 1 slipped through the olive- 
orchards; carefully keeping away from the 
paths, and as far as 1 could from the Ch^eau — 
the gleaming windows of which 1 could see 
on the heights above. Suddenly all the dogs 
at the Chateau began to bark together, and as 1 
feared that they had heard or scented me 1 
went off still farther over the hills of the En- 
garrouines — so that 1 might be quite safe from 
the game-keeper, outside the lines of the estate. 

But our hut still was far away, and 1 knew 
that if 1 went there 1 should be caught; if not 
that night, certainly the next day. Still 1 longed 
to see my father, to comfort my mother. It 
seemed as if 1 could hear her calling me — 

“ Pascalet! Pascalet ! ” 

In spite of the dark night, my eyes could 
make out far off on the hill of La Garde some- 
thing black between the woods and the olive- 
orchards ; something that looked like a heap of 
stones. It was our forlorn hut — laid up of 
stones without mortar and roofed with stone 
slabs. In my heart 1 seemed to see inside of it 
our one room, our oat-straw beds, the pot 
hanging by its pot-hooks and chain from the j 
beam, the big block behind the door on which ’ 
my father chopped the bread and which also j 
was our table. 1 longed for our little hut and } 


Sn tl)e Bttb 015 (Sitnee. 


25 


all in it; but fear, my great fear of the game- 
keeper, for a long while held me still. 

At last I was able to screw up my courage 
and go on. Keeping out of the path, and 
taking a big stone in each hand, I went for- 
ward slowly and step by step. Now and then 
1 stopped and listened. Feeling my way, dodg- 
ing from one stone wall to another, I got at 
last behind the hut. Softly 1 crept up to the 
hole stuffed with, grass that served us for a 
window, and pushing in the grass and leaning 
I my head forward I called: “Mother! mother! ” 

I No one answered — there was no one there! 

I Then my blood grew cold within me. 1 
thought that both my father and my mother had 
been killed. I ran round to the door of the hut. 
It was wide open. The game-keeper was noth- 
ing to me then! I called out at the top of my 
voice: “Mother! Father! Where are you? 
It is your Pascalet! ” — and my sorrow so hurt 
me that I rolled on the ground in such a pas- 
sion of crying as I never before had known. 

For more than an hour I lay there while I 
sobbed and groaned. At last, tired out, des- 
perate, raging because I was too weak to re- 
venge myself against those who had caused 
my bitter pain, I got on my feet again — while 
a dark thought came into my mind. The pond. 


26 


®l)e Eeb0 of tl)e ilXibi. 


the big pond that watered all the fields of the 
Chateau, was before me among the olive trees. 
Only a month before 1 had seen the body of 
pretty Agatha of Malemort drawn out of its 
waters — a girl, not twenty years old, who had 
drowned herself there because of some trouble 
1 could not understand. 1 ran off as if crazy, 
my arms spread wide open as though to em- 
brace some one; and when, through the trees, 

I saw the pond glittering 1 thought I saw Para- 
dise. As 1 came within a few steps of the 
edge 1 closed my eyes, took three jumps, one 
after the other and — pataflou! 1 was in the 
middle of the pond! 

Pascal stopped, yawned, and stretched him- 
self. “Well, ifs getting late — and 1 haven’t 
yet watered the mule. I’ll tell you the rest to- 
morrow. Right about face! March!” — and 
he was off. 

As I walked home beside my grandfather, 
holding his hand, 1 asked him: “But Pascal 
didn’t really drown himself, did he.^” 

“ Have patience, little one,” my grandfather 
answered. “To-morrow we shall know.” 


CHAPTER II. 


DEATH OR SLAVERY. 

The next night I ate my supper on both 
sides of my mouth at once — bolting my chest- 
nuts and porridge, and all the while in fear 
that 1 might be late at the cobbler’s shop and 
so lose even a single one of Pascal’s words. 
And while I was gobbling I kept saying to 
myself: “Suppose Pascal should choose this 
evening to take his olives to the mill, and should 
leave us all gaping with no story at all! ” 

With my mouth still full, 1 got up from the 
table and went to the cupboard where my 
grandfather’s lantern was kept and brought it 
to him ready lighted for our start. “Well,” 
said he, “you are in a hurry, mankin.” 

“ Oh, do come grandfather. Perhaps Pas- 
cal already has begun ! ” I cried beseechingly, 
and at the same time pulled him by the hand. 
But there was no need for beseeching, the good 
old man would have let me drag him any- 
where; he refused me nothing. When I think 

87 


28 


iiebs of i[)c ilXibi. 


of him, the tears come into my eyes. In a 
moment we were off, and we reached the 
cobbler’s just as Pascal was stepping over the 
threshold. 

The three of us went in together. Al- 
ready the shop was nearly full. Pipes were 
getting loaded, ready to be balanced in turn 
for lighting over the smoky lamp: beside 
which, like two little golden suns, hung the 
shining viholes. The lively heat of the stove 
in the close room — tight shut all day long — 
with its smell of stale tobacco-smoke mingled 
with the smells of shoemaker’s wax and wet 
leather, made an atmosphere so pungent that 
it fairly hurt one’s nose; but it grew better 
when Lou Materoun and the rest lighted their 
pipes — each charged at the top with a scrap ot 
fragrant amadou, that the fire might catch 
easily — and so gave us a fresh smell of burning 
that drowned out all the old smells of dead 
tobacco-smoke and wax and tan-bark and 
greasy leather thongs. 

The shoemaker and his apprentice were 
hammering away at a pair of soles. They 
were hurrying: it was easy to see that they 
wanted to get done with their noisy lap-stone 
work and so clear the way for the story to go 
on. Under the blows of the mushroom-headed 


JUcatl) or Slaoerg. 


29 


hammers the soles curled up and became dark 
and shiny. With his big black thumb, all 
dotted with pricks from his awl, the shoemaker 
turned and returned the leather on his lap- 
stone; and presently the work was done. I 
was getting very restless. I looked in the 
bucket under the table to see if there were any 
more soles to be pounded ; but in the bucket, 
full of dark water, there were only a few stray 
scraps of leather — the pounding was at an end. 

1 couldn’t hold my tongue any longer; and 
I, who always kept quiet, said quite boldly: 
“ Pascal, how did you get out of the pond 

And Pascal, who was only waiting to be 
started, leaned forward a little and immediately 
began : 

Well, my big jump ended in my sitting 
down in the middle of the pond with a smack 
that made me tingle with pain, and with a 
shock that went all up through me to the very 
roots of my hair — for the pond was frozen as 
hard as a stone! Hurt and half stunned, 1 
crawled as well as 1 could toward the frozen 
bank; and there, in a sort of dazed misery, 1 
sat down on the cold ground. What would 
become of me, what could 1 do 1 was father- 
less, motherless, homeless, left all alone in the 


30 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHiM. 


fields of a cold winter night. The only idea 
in my poor little head was that the one road 
out of my trouble was to die. 1 might go to 
the wolves in the mountains, or to Surto and 
the wicked Monsieur Robert at the ChMeau — 
in either way the wild beasts would kill me, 
and 1 would be quit of my sorrow and pain. 

But suddenly a good thought came to me. 
1 remembered that the only time 1 had gone to 
be catechised Monsieur le Cure had said to us: 
“My children, never forget that God is your 
father. When you are in trouble or pain or 
poverty, or when you are nigh unto death, 
pray to him and he will listen unto you. And 
go often and see him in his own house, which 
is the church. Go there just as you would to 
some kind and charitable neighbour’s house. 
You will see that he will help you.” 

The remembrance of these promises came 
back to me, though for three years 1 had 
never thought of them ; and 1 got up, greatly 
comforted. 1 had often met Monsieur le Cure 
— or Monsieur le Prieur, as we called him in 
my day — on the road to the Chateau de la 
Garde. But because he went there to visit the 
Marquis d’Ambrun that did not make him at 
all the same sort of man as the Marquis. He 
spoke kindly to every one. He even shook 


IDeatl) or Slaoerg. 


31 


my father’s hand when he met him, and would 
ask after his wife La Patine and after little Pas- 
calet. He laughed, he joked with the poorest 
of us. Oh, he was good dough well baked, 
that man — good all the way through. 

As 1 went down toward the village of 
Malemort in the cold darkness, whipped cruelly 
by the freezing wind, I seemed to see quite 
plainly our good Monsieur Randoulet: his kind 
face, his grey eyes, his long white hair curling 
on his shoulders, his fine delicate hands, his 
gown so long that the hem always was hitting 
against his heels, his black stockings, and his 
shoes with their silver buckles; and in my ears 
seemed to sound kind words spoken in his 
womanly-gentle voice. Of all the people who 
came to the Chtoau he was the only one who 
did not frighten me. He was the only one 
who, when I saluted him took off his hat to 
me, saying: “Good-day, little man.” 

It must have been about midnight when 1 
entered the village. No one was in the streets, 
no lights were in the windows; and the only 
noises were the roaring of the wind; and now 
and then the banging of a badly fastened shut- 
ter, and the endless murmur of water spirting 
from the fountain into the shell-shaped trough 
all hung with icicles. 


32 


QLl)c Ecbs 0f tl)e iHibi. 


I went on quickly through the lonely streets, 
straight to the Curacy beside the church. But 
when I found myself in front of Monsieur 
Randoulet’s door I began to get frightened 
again. Would he speak harshly to me ? 
Would he take me back to the ChMeau ? 
Would he give me again to Surto.^ No (I 
answered back to myself, reassuringly), he 
would not do these things. Monsieur Randou- 
let always had smiled when he spoke to me. 
Kindness always shone upon his face. He 
was good, he could not do evil. Surely he 
would protect me instead of betraying me: 
and I raised the knocker thrice and let it fall 
again — one ! two ! three ! . 

And then I began to tremble, in dread that 
I had knocked too hard. I waited, listening. 
Nothing stirred in the Curacy. 1 went back 
along the church wall and peered up at all the 
windows, but all were tightly closed and dark. 

1 went again to the door, again lifted up the 
knocker, waited again a moment and then — 
one! two! 1 did not dare knock the third 
time. In a minute I heard the voice of Mon- 
sieur Randoulet calling: “Janetoun! Janetoun! 

I think I hear some one knocking;” and of 
Janetoun answering him from the upper story: 
“Monsieur is mistaken — it is only a shutter 


or Slaoers- 


33 


rattling in the wind.” Then I knocked three 
times, boldly; and straightway I heard Mon- 
sieur le Cure calling: “1 told you so — go see 
what it is.” 

Presently 1 saw a light in a window far up 
under the tiles; and then 1 heard the click- 
clack of Janetoun’s wooden shoes as she came 
down the stairs. I heard her hand on the lock; 
but before she opened the door she called: 
“ Who’s there ? ” 

“ It’s me,” I answered. 

‘‘But who are you?” she called again; 
and I answered her: “It’s Pascalet de la 
Patine. ” 

Hardly had I finished saying my name when 
the door opened and my eyes were dazzled by 
the flash of light from the lamp which Janet- 
oun carried in her hand ; and as I stepped into 
the doorway she said crossly: “Monsieur le 
Cure is abed and asleep — and if he wasn’t 
he couldn’t go running through the streets in 
all this cold. What do you want with him ? 
Speak up! What do you want here at this 
time of night, anyway ?” 

She shut the door behind me, for it truly 
was bitter cold, and went up around the turn 
of the spiral stairs so as to get out of the 
draught; and there stood facing me, waiting 


34 


Eebs of tl)e iftibi 


for my answer. But her sharp words had so 
upset me that I did not know what to say. 
At last, shaking with cold and fear, 1 managed 
to stammer out: “ 1 want to see him.” 

“You want to see him! You want to see 
him! Good gracious, what a box of impu- 
dence! Don’t you know better than to come 
routing people up at two o’clock in the morn- 
ing in winter weather like this ? And don’t 
you know that it is only a death-call that would 
take Monsieur le Cure out on such a night and 
at such an hour ? Aren’t the days long enough 
for you ? Come when it is day.” 

As she spoke, Janetoun came down the 
stairs — up which 1 had crept a step or two — to 
send me into the street again. But Monsieur 
le Cure had heard all our talk, luckily, and from 
above called out to her: “Let little Pascalet 
come up — and start a fire in the kitchen so that 
he may warm himself. 1 wish it so.” 

Janetoun stopped grumbling, and her sabots 
went clattering up the stair-case and 1 followed 
her. We entered the kitchen, still warm from 
the fire of the night before, and still full of the 
smell of the sauces of Monsieur le Cure’s sup- 
per. This alone was enough to comfort my 
poor stomach — as empty as a clapperless bell! 
How good Monsieur le Cure’s stews must be! 


HJeatl) or SlatJerg. 


35 


I thought — for the smells were like those which 
came to me when 1 passed by the kitchen at 
the Chteau. And it was still better when Ja- 
netoun, with her face nearly an extra span long 
for vexation, broke some light wood across her 
knee and filled the fire-place with it and soon 
had a fine white crackling blaze. It seemed 
as if 1 had got into Paradise ! 

Presently 1 heard the soft flip-flop of Mon- 
sieur Randoulef s slippers. But when he came 
into the kitchen, muffled up in his long wrap- 
per and with a blue-checked handkerchief tied 
around his head, 1 did not know him — until 
he spoke to me with his gentle womanly voice. 
Then there was no mistaking him. It was in- 
deed good kind Monsieur Randoulet himself. 

“ Is it thou, Pascalet ? ” he said. “ Thou art 
a good boy, and thou hast done exactly right 
in coming here. Do not be afraid, 1 will take 
thee to see thy father. He is badly hurt, but 
he will get over it.” And as he spoke he 
stroked my cheeks with his soft hand and drew 
me gently to his side. 

I was filled with wonder. I had not even 
opened my mouth, and yet Monsieur le Cure 
knew all that 1 desired. 

'‘Where is my father, monsieur?” I ven- 
tured to ask. 


36 


13 e 50 of tl)e iHibi. 


“ He is in the hospital, where your mother 
is caring for him. I will take you to them 
in the morning — this is not the time. 1 am 
sure you have not eaten anything to-day. 
Janetoun, isn’t there something in the cup- 
board?” 

“What can there be ?” Janetoun answered 
sulkily; and as she opened the cupboard she 
added: “There is nothing at all but a stuffed 
tomato.” 

As she said this she put on the table a little 
stew-pan in which was a tomato as big as my 
fist and browned like a pie. Just to look at it 
made my mouth water! 

“Would you like that?” asked Monsieur 
Randoulet. “ Go ahead, then, and eat it. Don’t 
be afraid. Eat it out of the pan — here is a 
good piece of bread — and afterwards you shall 
have a good cup of wine and go to bed. When 
day-time comes I will take you to see your 
father in the hospital.” 

To know that my father was not dead, that 
my mother was taking care of him, that Mon- 
sieur Randoulet would stand between me and 
Surto — to know all that made me so happy 
that I felt sick. When 1 tried to eat I could 
not manage it. My gullet was all drawn to- 
gether, my mouth was dry ; and my heart still 


lUeatl) or Sioorrs. 


37 


was so full of the dismal fear of that dreadful 
day that there was no room in it for my 
joy. I felt queer in my inside, and my legs 
got weak under me and my head swam. 
Monsieur le Cure saw what was the matter. 

“Here,” said he, “start your appetite with 
this glass of wine,” and he poured two fingers of 
red wine into a beautiful glass cup that tinkled 
like a bell and that had a foot like the chalice 
used in the mass. You may be sure 1 made 
no bones about swallowing it down. Friends, 
that was wine! In an instant 1 no longer was 
the same boy. I bit into my bread and began 
! to cram my hollow inside — my jaws going 
I like a sausage-chopper. 

And I no longer was afraid. I talked to 
Monsieur le Cure as 1 would have talked to a 
I boy of my own age. I told him all that had 
I happened that day — the coming of the hare, 

' my poor father’s beating, the flinging of the 
stone, my day in hiding, and at last of my leap 
i into the pond. As he listened to me, Mon- 
I sieur le Cure sat down in front of the fire and 
warmed himself, his arms half raised and his 
hands out-spread to the flames as he used to 
hold them at mass when, standing in front of 
the missal, he sang the Praefatio. When 1 had 
finished he got up, poured for me another full 
5 


38 


®l)e !Jeb0 of t!)e iHibi. 


glass of wine and said: ''You are a good boy. 
You have done right in coming here.” 

Then he turned his back to me to hide his 
tearful eyes; and lifting his arms above his 
head, his hands clasped as when he raised on 
high the Host at the elevation, he exclaimed: 
"Oh wicked master! Oh false Christian! 
The Son of God shed his blood for great and 
small, for marquis and for serf. Wicked mas- 
ter! False Christian! To-day art thou mas- 
ter, but to-morrow thou mayst be cast down ! 
Thy hand is raised against thy God, and thou 
makest Jesus his Son to weep: for he sees his 
people starve. Oh master accursed! Oh false 
Christian ! Saint Roch will take from thee the 
bread thou ravishest from those who are cry- 
ing for food! Thou wilt see the gleaming 
sword of great Saint John the Baptist, and thou 
shalt feel its sharp edge ! Thy stronghold shall 
fall down before thee, the tocsin will forever 
ring for thee, and thou shalt see thy fountain 
run with blood! Oh wicked lord! Oh wicked 
Christian ! On thee rests heavily the curse of 
God!” 

In repeating these words old Pascal had 
risen to his feet and, unconsciously imitating 
the gestures of the good cure, had raised his 


IDeatl) or SlaocrB. 


39 


hands above his head in denunciation — while 
we all, overcome by his fervour, listened breath- 
lessly and gaped at him with wide open eyes. 

For a moment he was silent; and then, re- 
seating himself, he continued : 

Presently Monsieur Randoulet turned toward 
me, took me gently by the hand, and led me 
away; Janetoun following with the lamp. We 
went through a beautiful parlour that smelt of 
incense like a sacristy; and at the end of it 
was a double door which Monsieur le Cure 
opened, and there inside, in the alcove, was a 
big bed. 

“Now then,” said he, “you shall sleep 
here, in the bed of the Bishop of Carpentras!” 
He stroked my cheeks once more with his soft 
hand, and again pressed my head against his 
side, and then left me alone with Janetoun. 

1 did not know what to do with my hands, 
1 dared not touch anything., janetoun, as soon 
as her master had left us, seized me by the 
arm and in her rough voice cried: “What are 
you gaping at ! Get off youf rags and go to 
bed! ” And turning her back on me she clat- 
tered off with the light — leaving me in the 
alcove alone in the dark. 

Poor little me! 1 soon got off my coarse 


40 


Heb 0 of tl)e illibi. 


wool jacket and breeches and rough stockings. 
Feeling my way carefully, 1 climbed into the 
big bed — as soft as feathers could make it. 1 
buried myself in it, I burrowed down in it. 
In the twinkling of an eye 1 was as warm as a 
chick under the hen; and in another twinkling 
1 was as sound asleep as a top! The bed was 
so soft, the white sheets smelt so clean, that as 
1 dropped off 1 felt myself among the angels — 

I who all my life had gone to sleep hungry and 
whose bed had been always a truss of straw. 

In my sleep I dreamed that I was floating in • 
the air on a cloud, and that nothing could reach 
me to do me harm. I was in the midst of this 
wonderful dream when all of a sudden I heard 
loud shrill cries, such as you hear when a pig 
is being stuck; and then came a rumbling and 
squeaking like a rusty well-wheel, and the 
clatter that the bucket makes banging against 
the sides of the well; and then, right over my 
head, bom ! bom ! bom ! three great claps of a 
bell I My blood turned cold within me and, be- 
fore I had time to remember where I was, 
again came the screaming and the rumbling and 
the squeaking and the banging — and again 
bom! bom! bom! 

And then suddenly I remembered that I 
was in the Bishop’s bed in the Curacy, and my 


?Ileatl) or Slatjers. 


41 


fright left me as I understood the meaning of 
all these strange sounds: that the bell-tower 
of the church was right above me, and that the 
bell-rope ran up through the alcove and rubbed 
against the tester of my bed. It was the morn- 
ing Angelus that was ringing; the same An- 
gelus that sounded so clearly and so beauti- 
fully in the early morning far off in our hut of 
La Garde. 

Just as the last stroke of the Angelus rang 1 
heard Janetoun’s sabots clattering; and then 
the alcove door opened creakingly and 1 saw 
her standing in the grey morning light. She 
put a bundle on my bed and said in her rough 
voice: “Get up, little boy! Here, put on this 
shirt, these breeches, this jacket, these shoes 
and this cap. Do you understand.?” and so 
saying she spread out the clothes on the bed. 

1 gazed, gaping like a clam, at all this 
brand-new outfit ; but before I had time to say 
a word Janetoun had turned on her heel, and 
from the parlour door was calling back to me 
that 1 must, get up at once or 1 would keep 
Monsieur le Cure waiting. 

That warning was enough. 1 jumped out 
of my high bed with a single bound; and in 
no time 1 had scrambled into the white shirt, 
the new breeches, the warm jacket, the hole- 


42 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


less stockings, the pretty little buckled shoes, 
and the little three-cornered hat. When 1 saw 
myself in my fine clothes, 1 did not know what 
to do with my hands — and indeed could 
scarcely walk ! But 1 would not for the world 
have kept Monsieur le Cure waiting; and so, 
timidly tip-toing along, taking care not to slip 
on the shining tiles, 1 went down to the 
kitchen. 

Monsieur Randoulet already was seated at 
the table, and before him was a steaming cup 
of something black. When he saw me, he 
could not help laughing. “ Oh look at the 
little scamp of a Pascalet, why he might be the 
consul’s son! Sit down here and get your 
breakfast. 

•‘Do you like this he added, and gave 
me a cup of black steaming stuff, just like his. 
He took a spoonful of brown sugar from a dish 
and stirred it into my cup. “There, that will 
warm up your little stomach,” he said — and 
gave me a big fougasse with its crusty horns. 

He ate and drank; and then, doing just as 
he did, 1 sipped at my cup of black water and 
dipped in it a horn of my fougasse. Not until 
seven years later did 1 know that that black 
stuff was coffee — for the next time 1 tasted it 
was at Jaffa, after the battle of the Pyramids, 


?Ueatl) or Slaoerg. 


43 


when Bonaparte gave us coffee to keep us 
from the plague. 

“Well,” said Monsieur Randoulet, wiping 
his lips, “did you like it ? ” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Cure.” 

“And now do you want to see your fa- 
ther ? ” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Cure.” 

“Up then, and we’ll be off. Button your " 
jacket, it is cold.” And we went down into 
the street. 

By that time it was broad day ; and as we 
passed by the church we saw before it, on the 
pavement, a big pool of blood. Monsieur 
Randoulet stopped short. “Ah, the wicked 
ones,” he cried, “ to fight, to knife each other 
in this way! Children of the people — eating 
the same black bread, dragging the same chain 
after them, tanning their skins at the same 
work, burning in the same hell, slaves of the 
same master! Ah poor people, poor peo- 
ple! They unite their strength and they 
sweat blood only for the profit of their execu- 
tioners! ” 

We kept on to the hospital, but a few steps 
away, and entered without knocking — for the 
doors of the House of Charity always are wide 
open — and so passed up the stairs. At the 


44 


®t)e !^cbs of tl)e iUibi. 


stair-head, to the left hand, was the room for 
the sick, into which Monsieur Randoulet led 
me; and as we entered Sister Lucy, who was 
the sister in charge, came forward to meet him 
with a reverent greeting. On each side of the 
room were narrow white beds. In the first 
four to the right were four wounded men 
whose wives were taking care of them. But 
at the far end of the room, to the left, I saw 
my poor mother at the head of a bed; and I 
made but one jump to her and threw myself 
into her arms. And my mother, weeping, 
gave me a kiss ! The poor do not kiss often — 
their children not at all. I cannot recollect 
that any one had ever kissed me before. When 
my mother kissed me it seemed as if in that 
moment I lived over all the days of my life, 
while my heart within me swelled with joy. 
And then, turning, and leaning over the bed, 

I covered my old father’s wounded face with 
tears; while he kept saying, over and over: 
“Pascalet! Pascalet! Art thou indeed Pasca- 
let, my son Pascalet.^” 

But when I stood up again and saw my 
father’s face; when I saw the red swollen 
welts, a finger thick, that Monsieur Roberts 
and Surto’s whips had raised on his cheeks 
and forehead; when I saw his poor swollen 


HJeatl) or Slaocrji. 


45 


eye, almost starting out of his head — then I 
began to tremble with a burning rage. My 
face was on fire and my ears rang. My teeth 
were eager to bite, my nails to rend. 1 longed 
to burn the Chateau, to poison the wells ! 

But 1 was so helpless! All that 1 could do 
was to weep. 1 clinched my hands and said 
within me: “Oh, when I am big!” 

My old father began to move about rest- 
lessly ; and then to push down the coverings 
with his thin hairy hands. 

“ Why art thou moving about that way ?” 
my mother asked, covering him again with the 
white sheets. 

“1 want to say something, La Ratine. 
Come forward, thou and Pascalet. Listen. 
You are not in the way. Monsieur le Cure. 
Now that Pascalet is here, I want to say this 
to you: You must both go, toward mid-day, 
to the Chateau to see our lord Monsieur le Mar- 
quis, and our lady Madame le Marquise, and 
Monsieur Robert; and you must tell them that 
as soon as I am well 1 will go and ask their 
pardon. You will fall at their knees, at their 
feet, and you will beg them to have pity on 
you and on me. Tell them that our lives are 
in their hands. Dost thou hear, wife ? Pasca- 
let, dost thou hear ? You must not fail.” 


46 


Eeb0 of tl)e ittibi. 


Here Monsieur Randoulet cut him short: 
“No, no, Pascal, this is not the moment for 
that; when you are well, we will see about it. 
Believe me, 1 know.” 

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” said my old 
father. “ What will ever our good master the 
Marquis think of us, and Monsieur Robert also, 
if we do not ask their forgiveness ? But, Mon- 
sieur le Cure, if you think it is not suitable — 
not suitable now ? ” 

“No, no, this is not the moment. I will 
look after it all, do not be uneasy. And now 
good-bye, Pascalet. Come this evening and 
sleep at the Curacy. You understand, Pas- 
calet?” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Cure,” said 1, looking 
at him with reverence — for it seemed to me 
that in him 1 really saw the good God. 

But when he turned to leave us my father’s 
words came back to me: “You must go and 
ask forgiveness!” / ask forgiveness! 1 was 
red with shame, the blood boiled in my veins 
— and the wicked thought came to me: Why 
have 1 such a father ? 1 was ashamed of him. 
Not only would 1 disobey him, but I did 
not know what 1 would do if he tried to 
force me. 

1 was drawn away from these bitter thoughts 


?Ueatl) or Slaoer^. 


47 


by hearing Monsieur le Cure, as he passed be- 
side the other beds, speaking to the poor 
women who, weeping, were taking care of 
their wounded men. One had his cheek laid 
open by the bottom of a bottle so that all his 
teeth showed; another had both legs broken 
at the knees by a blow from an iron bar; into 
the back of the third a knife had been plunged 
up to the hilt; and the fourth had been almost 
disembowelled by a blow with a ploughshare. 
This last, though so frightfully wounded, had left 
the tavern and had managed to stagger as far 
as the church before he fell. It was his blood 
we had seen. 

“But how has this happened.? Who are 
the wretches who have wrought this misery ?” 
Monsieur le Cure asked again and again. 

“They will not speak out,” cried the four 
women together. “ They will not tell. They 
will only say that it was the Papalists — who 
called them Liberals and then fell on them and 
wounded them as you see! ” 

“Ah, if / dared but speak out! ” said one 
of the women. 

“What good would speaking out do?” 
said another. “The rich are always the rich 
— they never are in the wrong.” 

“Come, come, this has nothing to do with 


48 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


the rich,” said Monsieur le Cure. “ Rich peo- 
ple don’t kill off poor people like flies.” 

“When you go up to the ChMeau, mon- 
sieur,” said one of the women, turning her 
head away and speaking in a low voice, “just 
ask big Surto what took place. He knows all 
about it. Could stones speak out and tell all, 
that man wouldn’t keep his head on his shoul- 
ders for long! ” 

“Then all this has come from a quarrel be- 
tween Liberals and Papalists ? ” 

“That is all. Monsieur le Cure. Are we 
the kind of people to do harm ? ” 

Monsieur Randoulet turned away from them 
for a moment, while his eyes filled with tears. 
When he spoke again he said gently: “Take 
good care of these poor fellows. 1 will not for- 
get you and your children — you shall not 
want.” 

Before he left the hospital he tried to get a 
word from the wounded men. But their hurts, 
and the fever that was beginning to come on, 
kept them from answering — and so he went 
away. 

Surto’s name, spoken by one of the women, 
gave me goose-flesh. To my mind that man, 
that monster, that German, was ready for any 
crime. He frightened me more than wolves or 


or BlaoerB. 


49 


tigers, or the very devil himself! I was sure 
that he was looking for me; that he wanted to 
kill me in some dreadful way to revenge his 
master, Monsieur Robert, whose foot I had 
mashed with the stone — and 1 saw myself torn 
to pieces with the whip, and then strung up to 
one of the oaks on the avenue of the Chateau. 

And so Rstayed close-hidden all day long 
in the hospital; where — with my father and 
my mother and the Sisters — I thought that I 
was as safe as in the Curacy itself. And yet it 
was in the hospital that the danger was to 
come. 

1 waited until black night shut down close 
upon the village — until not a light showed in a 
single window and 1 was sure that everybody 
was in bed — before 1 dared to stir toward the 
Curacy. But in the very moment that 1 turned 
to go we heard faintly the sound of men’s voices 
singing the “Range Lingua,” and with this 
the tinkling of a little bell. Sister Lucy opened 
the window and looked out, and said as she 
closed it again; “They are the White Peni- 
tents. They must be escorting the Holy Sacra- 
ment to some sick man. But where can they 
be going ? Who can it be ? ” 

The tinkling of the bell and the singing 
came nearer and nearer, and at last reached the 


50 


®l)e Eebs of tl)c iHiM. 


hospital ; then they stopped, and we heard the 
sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The 
door opened, and in came six White Penitents: 
spectre-like creatures in long white gowns, 
with their heads hidden in pointed cowls — 
^;agoules, as the Penitents call them — which 
came down to their shoulders and had two 
staring round holes for their eyes. 

When I saw these six ghosts with their 
stretched-out heads pointed above and below, 
without any mouth and without any nose, 
with only two black holes where the eyes 
ought to be — and still more when 1 saw the 
biggest of them glancing at me fiercely with 
his hollow eyes — 1 trembled with fright and, 
holding my breath to make myself smaller, 
squeezed down in hiding between my father’s 
bed and the wall. 

In that very instant the six Penitents drew 
each a great knife out from his long hanging 
sleeve, and without a word they went up to the 
four wounded Liberals and so larded them with 
thrusts and cuts that their blood soaked through 
the straw mattresses and streamed upon the 
floor! The women screamed for help, and 
Sister Lucy ran beseechingly from one execu- 
tioner to the other — until a sidewise kick in 
her ribs sent her reeling against my father’s 




or Slaocrg. 


51 


bed, breathless and sick. My mother fell over 
against me, in a swound from fear. 

All this happened quicker than I am telling 
it you. When the Liberals were dead, stabbed 
through and through, five of the Penitents, all 
bloody, ran four steps at a time down the 
stairs. But one, the biggest one, stayed be- 
hind. He came straight to my father’s bed 
and stooped and looked under it — so that I 
saw his eyes flashing through the holes of his 
cagoule. Then, stooping, he reached out his 
arm and caught my wrist and so dragged me 
out. 

I screamed at the top of my voice. But no 
good came of screaming. There was no one 
to help me. Only my poor old father and the 
weak women and the dead were there — and 
the monstrous great Penitent, dragging me 
with him from the room, hustled me down 
the stairs and so into the street. Whether or 
no, I had to follow him. He held me like a 
vice. When I called for help he turned and 
cuffed me; and by the time that a window 
opened — as happened once or twice — we were 
far away. So we passed beyond the skirts of 
the village; and at last, tired of struggling, 
more dead than alive, I followed him auietlv — 
as an unhappy dog follows one who drags him 


52 


QL[)C Bebs of tl)c ittibi. 


at the end of a thong to throw him over a 
bridge. 

What could that murderous wretch want 
with me ? From the moment that he had come 
into the hospital I had guessed who it was; 
but when we turned, after leaving the village, 
into the road leading to the Chateau there was 
no room left for hoping that my guess might 
be wrong. I knew for certain that this man 
who was dragging me after him, who held me 
with his big strong hand — red with the blood 
of murdered men — was Surto; and I felt that 
since it was Surto who had me fast — there in 
the darkness of night, and on that lonely road 
through the fields where there was no chance 
for me of rescue — I was as good as lost. 

Pascal, who was a born story-teller, paused 
at his climax; while we, greedily listening, 
bent forward open-mouthed and eager for him 
to go on. And just at that very moment the 
shop door flew open with a bang, and in 
rushed La Mie, the shoemaker’s wife, like a 
malicious whirlwind! 

What are you all doing? What are you 
thinking about ? ” she cried angrily. “ Here it 
is eleven o’clock — in another moment it will 
be midnight. And you have been chattering 


?Deatl) or Slaoer^. 


53 


about nothing for a good two hours! The oil 
is wasting, and my miserable cobbler of a hus- 
band is losing his time like a child. And as 
for you, you lazy dog,” she added, turning to 
the apprentice, “not a stitch have you set the 
whole night long. It is enough to drive a 
saint crazy. Begone, all of you!” And La 
Mie, in a towering passion, blew out the 
lamp. 

“You hard-tongued slut,” cried the shoe- 
maker through the darkness, grinding his teeth, 
“ I’ll serve you out for this! ” 

As for the rest of us, we groped our way 
along the walls to the door, got out into the 
street, and set off for our homes and beds. 
But we hardly had taken ten steps when we 
heard the sound of the shoemaker’s strap 
whacking La Mie’s back with sounding blows. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE REDS OF THE MIDI. 

During the whole of the next day the one 
thing that was talked about in our village — at 
olive-mill, washing-place and bake-oven — was 
La Mie’s tremendous whacking; which had 
lasted, it was rumoured, until well on toward 
morning. And when 1 heard all this gossip I 
wondered if that evening the shoemaker’s shop 
would be open for the meeting. 

But 1 felt reassured when my grandfather, 
as he swallowed his last mouthful of supper, 
snapped his knife together, put it in his pocket, 
and said: “Come on, little man, light the lan- 
tern. You will see she has had enough to 
make her behave herself for a fortnight! ” 

Well, he was right. The shop was open 
just the same as usual ; shoemaker and appren- 
tice were tapping away as cheerily as ever; 
and what was more, there was La Mie in per- 
son, smiling and agreeable, seated close to the 
light knitting her stocking. She talked of va- 

b4 


®l)c Eebs 0f tl)e iHibi. 55 


rious things and made herself pleasant to every- 
body. “ Good evening, Dominic” (that was 
to my grandfather). “Pray take this chair. 
And you, my dear, put down that saucy cat 
who has jumped up on your little bench.” 
And then, turning to her husband, she added : 
“ Why, see there, your lamp is burning badly,” 
and so saying she took her scissors and 
trimmed the lamp. And in the tone of her 
voice, all the while, there was a ring of su- 
preme satisfaction and content. 

.1 did not understand her good humour. But 
all the neighbours smiled, and then La Mie 
smiled too — for every one knew that after the 
shoemaker and his wife had quarrelled and 
made up again they always were the best of 
friends. And so, when Pascal came, she said 
with all possible cordiality: “Ah, we have 
been waiting for you. Draw up to the stove. 

1 heard that you were telling a story, and I 
said to myself that I would come and listen 
with the rest — because your stories always are 
so good. Begin right away.” 

And 1, fearful that Pascal might have for- 
gotten just where he left off, and that we might 
lose a part of the story, ventured to strike in*. 
“You know, Pascal, you stopped where the 
big White Penitent was dragging you through 


56 


of tl)e illibi. 


the black night along the road to the Cha- 
teau.” 

“Yes, yes, 1 remember,” Pascal answered. 
And then, after waiting a minute or two 
until we all were comfortably settled, he 
went on: 

I certainly thought that I was lost. Every 
time that 1 hung back, or tried to break away, 
Surto gave me a buffet; and when he changed 
me from one hand to the other he swung me 
around so rapidly that it seemed as if he would 
jerk loose my arms. All this time he was 
walking fast — and never for an instant did he 
let me go free. 

Up on the heights, at the end of the road, 

I could begin to make out the black row of 
oaks in front of the Chateau — and 1 knew that 
once beyond those oaks it was all up with me. 
Yet if only I could get loose for so much as a 
second 1 felt sure that 1 would be all right — for 
a single spring aside would take me out of the 
road and into safety. 1 knew every hand’s 
breadth of the country thereabouts — the steep 
hill-sides, the tufts of bushes, the ditches, the 
walls, the paths; and then, too, in the black- 
ness of night a start of two steps is worth 
more than a long run by day. But the first 


QL\)c Eebs 0f tl)e iltiM. 


57 


thing to do was to get my start by making 
him let go of my hand. 

At first I thought of biting him — of biting 
off his finger, perhaps ; but I saw that wouldn’t 
do, for 1 couldn’t bite him at once in both 
hands. And then my great danger sharpened 
my wits and gave me a better notion : making 
me remember the trick that often had been put 
upon me by the little wild creatures — crickets, 
beetles, cigales, the praying-mantis — which 
sometimes 1 caught in the fields. As 1 touched 
them they would always — either from fear or 
by cunning — gather themselves into a little 
heap, moving neither foot nor leg, so that they 
seemed quite dead. 1 could turn them as I 
pleased; blow on them; shout at them— yet 
they never stirred. But did 1 for a single mo- 
ment look aside — off would scuttle my crickets, 
and my cigales and beetles instantly would fly 
away ! It always was a fresh surprise to me, 
this trick; and the good thought that came to 
me was that 1 should play it in my own behalf. 
There was no time to be wasted, and the very 
minute that I had this notion 1 acted upon it — 
dropping like a dead creature and hanging limp 
from Surto’s huge hand. 

“Vat, you vont valk any more ? ” he cried. 
“Veil, take that then!” — and he gave me a 


58 


®[ie Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


kick in the ribs that seemed to crack every one 
of them and that knocked all the wind out of 
me. But 1 set my jaws hard and made no 
sound; nor did I give any sign of life when he 
followed up the kick by a cuff with his great 
paw that made my teeth chatter. He seemed 
to suspect a trick, for all this while he never 
let loose his grip on my wrist; and when he 
found that neither kicks nor cuffs could make 
me walk he dragged me along behind him, my 
body bumping on the rough ground. This 
was not good going for me; .but it also was 
bothersome for him. He had not taken ten 
steps — to every one of which he swore a big 
German oath — before he stopped again. By 
that time he must have begun to believe in my 
trick, for I heard him mutter: “Til haf you 
any vay, tead or alife! ” — and then he tried to 
swing me up on his shoulders. 

Luckily for me, his Penitent’s dress was in 
the way and he couldn’t manage it. The big 
sleeves caught him in his arms, and the cagoule 
flapped about so that the holes no longer were 
before his eyes. It was as though he had his 
head in a bag. Still holding me, he tried to 
throw off the cagoule with one hand. But it 
would not come loose; and at last, entirely 
tricked by my limp deadness, he let me drop 


®l)e Eeb0 of tl}e iHibi. 


59 


on the ground while he went at it with both 
hands. My chance had come! In an instant, 
while he still was fumbling at the cagoule, I 
was on my feet ; and before his head was clear 
of it I had jumped the ditch by the roadside 
and had bounded in among the brushwood — 
and so was well away ! 

“Te tevil! Ten tousand tevils! I’ll haf 
you yet, you little peast!” he cried out after 
me; and I heard him crashing into the brush- 
wood as he leaped the ditch and then came 
pounding along heavily in my wake. But he 
might as well have been chasing thistledown! 
I had the start of him ; I knew my way ; the 
darkness covered me. , Presently, when I was 
a long way ahead, I heard him whistling for 
the dogs at the Chateau. Dogs were another 
matter. They could get along even better 
than I could in the dark. I ran harder than 
ever.- But the dogs were slow in coming. I 
am not sure that they came at all. Faintly, 
far behind me, I heard Surto’s strong Dutch 
curses as I came in sight of the outlying houses 
of Malemort. I was saved ! 

It was after midnight when I entered the 
village ; yet the streets were full of people and 
all the houses were alight. The kniving of the 
four Liberals had turned the whole place upside 


6o 


Eebs of t[)c ilXibi. 


down. As I crossed the Rue Basse I heard 
the cries and moans of the women, up in the 
hospital, wailing over their dead; and the 
murmurs and curses of the crowd standing 
about the hospital door. Still all of a tremble 
with fear, I dared not enter the crowd. It 
seemed to me that only with Monsieur le Cure 
would I be safe — and I went to the Curacy 
without a halt. Janetoun had not gone to bed, 
and at my first little knock I heard the clatter 
of her wooden shoes. 

“Who is there she called out. 

“I, Pascalet.” 

Then Janetoun quickly swung the door 
open. “Well, I never!” she cried. “It is 
Pascalet, sure enough. Where did you get 
away from the White Penitent ? ” 

“Up by the Chateau. I played him a trick 
that made him let me go — and then I ran off 
from him in the dark.” 

“ But what did he want with you 
“ He wanted to kill me.” 

“Kill you! VAWyoti — little Pascalet! The 
monster! Do you know who it was 

“ Oh yes, I know very well. It was Surto.” 
“The game-keeper of Monsieur le Mar- 
quis.^ That fine handsome big man.^ What 
are you talking about } It is impossible! ” 


“No, it is not impossible. I know him 
very well. It was he.” 

“You are crazy, child. Be careful not to 
speak that wild thought to any one else. Have 
you had your supper ? ” 

“Yes — Sister Lucy gave it to me.” 

“Very well. Then you shall go to bed. 
Monsieur le Cure’ has not come home yet. 
They sent for him to bring the holy oil to the 
hospital — but the men there are past holy oil- 
ing, from what 1 hear. When he comes back 
ril tell him you’re here. But you’d better get 
to bed, so come on.” 

Janetoun led me to the big parlour, opened 
the doors of the alcove, and showed me again 
the great soft bed of the Bishop of Carpentras ; 
and as she was closing the doors of the alcove 
upon me she said: “ At least make the sign of 
the cross before you go to sleep.” 

1 groped my way to bed. But when 1 
was between the sheets, in among the soft 
feathers, 1 could not sleep. 1 had one shiver^ 
ing fit after another; and the White Penitent, 
with his cagoiile that made his head seem like a 
kite, always was before my eyes. 1 would see 
him standing up straight and tali at the foot of 
the bed ; then his long arms would reach out 
over me; his grasp would settle tight on my 


62 


®l)e Ecbs of tl)e iHibi. 


foot; and when I tried to cry out for help he 
would clutch my throat with his blood-stained 
hands. When sleep did come to me he still 
kept with me and lashed me in my dreams; 
until at last he brought out his long knife and 
was making ready to pin me with it to the 
bed, as he had done with the men at the hos- 
pital. And then, suddenly, there was a loud 
creaking noise ; the door of the alcove opened ; 
a blinding light shone upon me — and there, 
beside my bed, was Monsieur le Cure with a 
lamp in his hand. 

“Don’t be afraid, Pascalet,” he said. “It 
is 1 — Monsieur Randoulet. You must get up 
now. Day will soon be breaking. You must 

go-” 

“Monsieur,” 1 said, “I cannot go back to 
the hospital. 1 am afraid.” 

“You are not to go to the hospital, Pasca- 
let. You are to go quite away from here, to a 
place where you will be in safety. And now 
you must get up quickly. Before the daylight 
comes you must be off.” 

Without another word '1 was out of bed 
and sliding into my clothes. But when I 
looked for my cocked hat it was not to be 
found. 

“Ah, it is your little hat you are looking 


®I)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


63 


for,” said Monsieur Randoulet. “Here it is. 
You left it at the hospital;” and then he led 
me quickly to the kitchen, where Janetoun 
already had a glowing fire. Janetoun was 
greatly excited. She was going to and fro in a 
hurry exclaiming: “Oh Heaven! Oh Heaven!” 
and between whiles heaving great sighs. 

Monsieur Randoulet brought out a blue 
cloth wallet into which she put two double- 
handfuls of figs, two more of almonds, some 
apples, and a loaf of bread. Then, with a 
comfortable gurgling sound, she filled for me a 
little brown flask made out of a brown gourd 
— so polished that it shone like a chestnut — 
from the great jar of wine. 

When all was finished. Monsieur Randoulet 
took my hand in both of his and said to me: 
“My child, we are fallen on evil times. The 
men about us, worse than wolves, seek to de- 
vour their own kind. Our streets run red with 
blood. Even thou, my child, even thou, they 
seek in order to make thee perish — and, withal, 
thou art a good boy. Therefore it is well that 
thou shouldst go far from here, even to the city 
of Avignon ; so far away that they no longer 
can do thee harm. In the flask and wallet 
which Janetoun has filled are food and drink 
enough to suffice thee for two days — double 


64 


^chQ of tl)e iUibi. 


the time that thou needst to be upon the road. 
Here is a letter which thou must keep by thee 
carefully until thou art come to Avignon, where 
thou art to present it to Monsieur le Chanoine 
Jusserand. He will find honest work for thee 
to do, so that thou mayst gain thy livelihood 
with clean hands. And remember always, my 
child, that no man ever regrets the good that 
he has done; and that to every man, sooner or 
later, comes retribution for his evil deeds. 
Kiss me and promise me that thou wilt never 
render evil for evil ; but for evil, good — even as 
our blessed Lord has taught us from the height 
of his cross.” 

And I, my heart hurting me because of 
Monsieur le Cure’s goodness and the pain of 
going out alone from my home, answered: 
“Yes, Monsieur le Cure, I promise. But ” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ My mother — who will take care of her ? ” 

“ Do not trouble thyself, my child. Neither 
thy father nor thy mother shall suffer want.” 

He hung the bag full of victuals about my 
neck, and thrust into the pocket of my coat 
the shining flask filled with good wine. ‘ ‘ Come 
now,” he said, “1 will start thee in the right 
road ” — and he led the way down the stairs, 
and so to the outer door. 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ifliM. 


65 


The stars were still in the sky when we 
reached the street. No one was stirring. The 
only noise was the gurgling of the fountain. 
We went on together in silence until we were 
outside the village and fairly upon the high 
road to Avignon. Then Monsieur Randoulet 
took me in his arms, kissed me, and said: 
“ Remember, Pascalet, all that 1 have told 
thee. 1 will take care of thy father and thy 
mother; and as for thee, so thou be a good 
boy. Monsieur Jusserand, the Canon, will see 
to it that thou hast a chance to gain thy bread. 
Do not lose the letter. By sunrise thou wilt 
be half way on thy journey. Ask the first peo- 
ple whom thou meetest if thou art on the road 
to Avignon. Walk on like a man — and at 
mid-day thou wilt sight the Palace of the 
Popes.” 

Again he embraced me, and 1 felt him slip 
something into the pocket of my jacket; but I 
could not guess what it was, nor could 1 think 
much about it, because just then my heart was 
so full. “Thank you very, very much. Mon- 
sieur Randoulet” was all that 1 could find to 
say. And then 1 started on the road to Avi- 
gnon. 

1 walked and I walked — on and on over the 
white road and through the black night. The 


66 


®l)e Hebs of tl)e iflibi. 


farmhouse dogs came out barking from as far 
off as they could scent me. Some even tried to 
bite me. And I, poor little miserable boy, 
made myself as small as I could and walked 
on and on! Once 1 almost turned back. I 
was frightened not less by the darkness than 
by the silence — which every now and then 
was made keener by the hooting in some elm 
or willow by the roadside of a screech-owl : a 
dismal bird. 

But at last, as 1 walked on steadily, day- 
break came; and all of a sudden the beautiful 
clear sun sprang up over Mount Crespihoun — 
sending my shadow far ahead of me on the 
white road and cheering and comforting me 
with his warm rays. My long shadow amazed 
and delighted me. “ It is not possible,” 1 said 
to myself, “that you are as big as that; that 
you are so well dressed ; that you have a cocked 
hat! Why, you look like a man!” And I 
grew almost happy to feel myself suddenly so 
grown up, and free, and my own master out 
in the world. Just then 1 remembered that 
when Monsieur Randoulet had left me he had 
slipped something into the pocket of my jacket; 
and when I fetched it out to look at it, behold ! 
wrapped tight in a blue paper 1 found three 
beautiful white silver crowns! This was too 


®l)e liebs of tl)e iHibi. 


67 


much! Three whole crowns! What could I 
ever do with such a sum ? Then indeed I felt 
myself a big strong man. In that moment I 
do not think that even Surto would have fright- 
ened me. 

I strode along the road as proud as Lucifer; 
and presently, looking up, I saw before me a 
great city with houses having many windows — 
quite unlike our little houses at Malemort — while 
rising still higher in the morning sunlight were 
noble towers: “What, Avignon already?" I 
said to myself. “ Well, you have come a good 
pace! " But just then I met a lame old peasant 
on his way to hoe his vineyard, and his answer 
to my question if it were Avignon took a little 
of the conceit out of me. 

“Well, my lad," he answered, “it’s plain 
that you’re not from around here. . That’s not 
Avignon — that’s Carpentras. The city of Avi- 
gnon, God be thanked, is far enough from here. 
If you keep right along your road you’ll hardly 
get there by sunset. " 

The old man put down his hoe from his 
shoulder as he spoke; and then, leaning on its 
handle as shepherds lean on their crooks, he 
looked hard at me and added: “Tell me, my 
lad, is the matter very important that is taking 
you to Avignon just now? If it is not, you 


68 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


had better turn right around and go back to 
the place you came from. They say that 
things are happening in Avignon fit to make 
your blood run cold. And it isn’t surprising, 
either. They are a bad lot, down there — 
jealous, envious, deceitful, cowardly — bad all 
the way through. Brigands, people call them ; 
and that’s what they are.” He was silent for 
a moment; and then, coming close to me and 
speaking in a low voice in my ear, he went 
on: “They are worse still. They are working 
for what they call the ‘ Revolution ’ ; for some 
sort of a new government in France, and 
against the Pope. They want to get rid of the 
Pope’s government — brigands that they are! 
And, do you know, twice they have tried to 
besiege our town of Carpentras ? That shows 
what wretches they must be. I need say no 
more, my lad. Good-bye!” and off he went 
up the road. When he had gone a little way 
he turned again and called: “ 1 have a piece of 
good advice to give you : Go back whence you 
came!” and then, his hoe on his shoulder, he 
went hobbling away. 

But 1, having my orders from Monsieur le 
Cure, was not to be put about by the chance 
warnings of a lame old man. 1 went forward, 
steadily and stoutly, as though 1 had not heard a 


Bibs of tl)e illibi. 


69 


single word. The sun rose higher and higher as 
I walked on and on. I passed long stretches of 
garrigues, whence came to me the sweet clean 
smell of thyme growing wild there on the 
rocky hills ; and then longer stretches of 
meadow land dotted with vejados — the little 
sod-heaps capped each one with a stone which 
are set up to warn away shepherds with their 
flocks. And so noon-tide came and passed. 

It was in the early afternoon that first 1 saw 
the Rhone, one of the biggest rivers in the 
world. 1 have seen the Rhine, the Danube, the 
Berezina: they all are smaller than the Rhone. 

I don’t know how to make you see it better 
than by saying that it is as wide as Monsieur 
Veran’s twenty-acre field. Only suppose that 
instead of seeing the brown wheat stubble 
you saw a great ditch full of water running 
from away off down to the very sea — and then 
you would have the Rhone! 

At last I came within sight of the Pope’s 
City. Saints in Heaven ! What a beautiful town 
it was! Going right up two hundred feet 
above the bank of the river was a bare rock, 
steep and straight as though cut with a stone- 
mason’s chisel, on the very top of which was 
perched a castle with towers so big and high 
— twenty, thirty, forty times higher than the 
7 


70 


Eebs of tl)e iHiM. 


towers of our church — that they seemed to go 
right up out of sight into the clouds ! It was 
the Palace built by the Popes; and around and 
below it was a piling up of houses — big, 
little, long, wide, of every size and shape, and 
all of cut stone — covering a space as big, I 
might say, as half way from here to Carpentras. 
When I saw all this I was thunderstruck. And 
though I still was far away from the city a 
strange buzzing came from it and sounded in 
my ears — but whether it were shouts or songs 
or the roll of drums or the crash of falling houses 
or the firing of cannon, I could not tell. Then 
the words of the lame old man with the hoe 
came back to me, and all of a sudden I felt a 
heavy weight on my heart. What was I going 
to see, what was going to happen to me in the 
midst of those revolutionary city folks ? What 
could I do among them — I, so utterly, utterly 
alone ? 

In order to scare up a little courage I felt in 
my pocket to make sure that I still had the 
letter that Monsieur Randoulet had given me. 
There was the good letter, and as I touched it 
I seemed to feel the kind Cure’s hand; and 
there, too, were the three beautiful white 
crowns, each one of them worth three francs. 
And then, my spirits rising until I was as light 


®l)e Eebe of tl)e illibi. 


71 


as a bird, I marched on again until I came to 
the gate of Saint-Lazare in the walls of Avi- 
gnon. 

Oh what sights 1 saw there and what a 
crowd! How many shall 1 say? I don’t 
know — at least ten thousand. The people 
were jumping, dancing, laughing, clapping 
their hands, hugging each other, until you 
might have thought they all were merry-mad. 

1 found myself, 1 scarcely know how, mixed 
in with this crowd — which was spread out 
along the base of the ramparts and was going 
in and out of the wide open gates. All of a 
sudden some one raised the cry: ‘"The faran- 
dole! The farandole!” — and the tambourins 
began to buzz, pipes began to squeal, and 1 
saw coming toward me a swaying line of 
dancers hand in hand: an endless farandole 
stretching as far as 1 could see. 

And what a farandole ! There in line were 
bare-footed ragamulfins hand in hand with 
well-to-do well-dressed citizens each with his 
watch on. There were soldiers, washwomen 
and hucksterwomen in their Catalan caps, 
dandies with silk-tied queues, porters, ladies in 
lace dresses. There was a Capuchin monk, 
red as a peony, and a brace of priests; and 
there were three nuns kicking up their heels 


72 


Eebs of tl)e iJlibi. 


and showing their fat calves. Then followed 
a long line of girls, of children, of everything. 
And all these people capered and danced 
and sang in time to the pipes and tabors scat- 
tered along the line. There was no end to it 
all — and the crowd clapped hands and ap- 
plauded and from time to time sent up a great 
shout of “Vive la Nation!” Presently 1 too 
caught the madness — and away 1 went with 
the others in the farandole, shouting “Vive la 
Nation! ” at the top of my lungs. 

It was so long, that farandole, that neither 
beginning nor end could be seen to it. Before 
the last of the dancers had come out by the 
Porte Saint-Lazare the leaders had entered the 
city again by the Porte du Limbert; while the 
crowd pressed close behind, squeezed together 
like a swarm of bees. Utterly bewildered, 
gaping like an oyster, 1 followed my leaders; 
and so entered Avignon by the Porte du Lim- 
bert and went on through the Rue des Tein- 
turiers, the street of the Water Wheels. 

What a queer street that is! Half of it is a 
paved street and the other half is the bed of 
the river Sorgue; and on the side of the river 
huge black wheels, dipping down into the 
swiftly-running water, stick out from the cali- 
co-mills and dye-houses and turn the machin- 


Eebs of tl)e ilXibi. 


73 


ery that is inside. As that day was a great fes- 
tival, the weavers and dyers were not at work. 
Everywhere the buildings were hung from 
roof to ground with great pieces of party-col- 
oured calico — red, blue, green, yellow, with 
big bunches of flowers all over them — and 
from drying lines stretched across the street 
there floated thousands and thousands of the 
pretty bright-coloured neck-kerchiefs which 
our girls wear: so that the whole place seemed 
to be ablaze with flags and festoons and ban- 
ners shimmering in the sunlight as they flut- 
tered in the cold air. And all these fluttering 
waving things, and the buzzing roar and the 
surging and swaying of the crowd, with the 
sparkling Sorgue water falling with a tin- 
kling drip in the sunshine — like cascades of au- 
tumn leaves — from the great slowly turning 
wheels which seemed like huge snails moving 
backwards ; all this sparkle and glitter and tu- 
mult and turmoil, I say, was enough to dazzle 
a man and make him mad with joy! 

The press in the narrow street was so close 
that the farandole dancers could not caper with 
any comfort at all. Every now and then 1 
could catch sight of their heads far in advance 
bobbing up and down above the level of the 
crowd — as they vainly tried to keep time to 


74 


Q[|)e Ecbs of t\)c ittibi. 


the squealing of the pipes and the quick tap- 
ping of the tambourins. And so on we went 
— some of us lifted off our feet at times in the 
tight squeeze — up through the street of the 
dyers and the street of the hosiers, and then 
out through the Rue Rouge to the Place de 
I’Horloge in front of the Hotel de Ville; where 
there was room to spread out again and the 
farandole dancers once more could skip it and 
jump it as they pleased. Again I saw pass and 
repass that strangely linked human chain. 
There were the bearded Capuchin and the pot- 
bellied burghers, the nuns red as poppies, the 
soldiers, the priests, the washwomen, the fine 
ladies, the loafers^ the children, the porters — in 
a word, there was all Avignon dancing the 
farandole: while up on the Rocher des Dorns 
cannon thundered, and all the crowd, dancers 
and on-lookers, roared “Vive la Nation!”; 
and high in the clocktower of the Hotel de 
Ville wooden Jacquemart and Jacquemarde, 
who keep the time for Avignon, beat upon the 
great bell and sent its loud clangour booming 
above us in the clear air. 

From the Place de I’Horloge we went 
onward, the crowd keeping with us and fol- 
lowing us, to the open square in front of the 
Pope’s Palace: where all the merry-making 


®l)e Eeire of tl)e iHibi. 


75 


was to come to a climax in a People’s Festival. 
In the middle of the square was a platform on 
which already were seated the Commissioners 
who had arrived the evening before from Paris 
to make formal proclamation of the reunion of 
Avignon to France. The crowd soon spread 
over the Rocher des Dorns, and increased con- 
•stantly. People were squeezed and pressed 
together like wheat in a hopper. They were 
piled up everywhere — the windows, the bal- 
conies, the very roof-tiles were black with 
heads. The circling dancers with joined hands 
made a great swaying curve which took in 
both the square of the Pope’s Palace and the 
Place de I’Horloge. The mass of the crowd 
was surrounded by this huge farandole; and 
in the midst of the balancing dancers the on- 
lookers clapped their hands and stamped their 
feet in time to the drumtaps and shouted: 
“Vive la Nation! Down with the Pope’s 
Legate! Vive la France!” 

Presently one of the Commissioners stood 
up on the platform and made signs for quiet; 
and when, little by little, the drummers and 
pipers had stopped playing and the noise of 
the crowd slowly had ceased, the Chief Com- 
missioner, the formal delegate from the Na- 
tional Assembly at Paris, read out the great 


76 


Eebs of tl)e iHiM. 


decree: which declared Avignon and the Com- 
tat Venaissin severed from the dominions of 
the Pope and once more united to France. 
And then the crowd burst forth into such a 
shouting of “Vive la Nation!” and “Down 
with the Pope’s Legate!” that it seemed as if 
their cries never would have an end. 

But quiet came suddenly when the Com- * 
missioners were seen to turn toward the Pope’s 
Palace and to make signs to some workmen 
posted up on the roof, and as the workmen 
obeyed their order a solemn silence rested on 
the crowd. On top of the Palace, sticking up 
above the battlements, you still may see the 
little stone gable where hung for 1 know not 
how long the silver bell that to most people 
was almost the same thing as the Pope him- 
self It rang when the old Pope died; it rang 
when the new Pope was blessed and crowned 
— and people said that it rang all by itself, 
without touch of human hand. In Avignon, 
the ringing of that sweet-toned little silver bell 
seemed to be the Pope’s own voice; and to 
see it gleaming in the sunshine up there in the 
gable above his Palace made one understand, 
somehow, his greatness and his glory and his 
riches and his power. 

And there before our eyes, obeying the 


Eebs of tl)c iUibi. 


77 


order of the Commissioners, the workmen 
were taking that bell away forever — because 
the Comtat was a part of France again, and 
the power of the Popes over Avignon was 
gone! 

In the dead silence we could hear the click- 
ing of pincers and the tapping of hammers 
and the grating of files; and then a single 
sharp sweet clang — which must have come 
when the bell, cut loose from its fastenings, 
was lifted away. Having it thus free from the 
setting where it had rested for so long a while, 
the workmen brought it to the battlements; 
and in plain sight of all of us, down the whole 
great depth of the Palace walls, lowered it by 
a cord to the ground. And the poor little bell, 
glittering like a jewel in the sunshine, tinkled 
faintly and mournfully at every jar and jerk of 
the cord as though it knew that its end had 
come: now giving out, as it swayed and the 
clapper struck within, a sweet clear sound; 
and again, as it jarred against the wall, a sound 
so harsh and so sad that to hear it cut one’s 
heart. All the way down those great walls it 
uttered thus its sad little plaint; until we 
seemed to feel as though it were a child some 
one was hurting; as though it were a living 
soul. And I know that the pain that was in 


78 


Qri)e Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


my heart was in the hearts of all that crowd. 
The silence, save for the mourning of the bell, 
was so deep that one could have heard the 
flight of a butterfly — and through it, now and 
then, would come from some one a growling 
whisper: “Liberty and the Rights of Man are 
all very well, but they might have left our little 
bell alone!” And it is certain that for an 
hour or more after the funeral of the little bell 
was ended no one shouted “ Vive la Nation! ” 
or “Down with the Pope’s Legate! ” or “ Vive 
la France! ” 

But quickly enough tambourins and fifes 
began to play again ; the farandole again got 
going; again there sounded the buzz and mur- 
mur of the crowd. And then the men began to 
bring the victuals for the Festival : great baskets 
of freshly baked white bread, fat jars of olives, 
and baskets of nuts and of golden winter 
grapes. All these good things were arranged 
in front of the platform where the Commis- 
sioners were standing, and whoever pleased 
was free to go up and draw a fixed portion : a 
loaf of bread, seven olives, six filberts or wal- 
nuts, and a bunch of grapes. 

Getting to the baskets through the crush 
that there was around them was no easy mat- 
ter. But I managed it, though pretty well 


!^e 50 of tl)e iHiM. 


79 


banged and bruised by the way; and when 
my rations were secured I looked about me for 
a place where I could munch them in some 
sort of comfort and at the same time see what 
was going on. 

The steps leading up to the portico of the 
Pope’s Palace seemed to be just the place for 
me, as from there you see over the whole big 
square. A good many other people had had 
the same notion and were seated or standing 
on the steps eating away ; but a soldier of the 
National Guard, who was there with his wife 
and little boy, moved up and made room for 
me so that 1 found myself very well fixed in- 
deed. The soldier was a good-looking fellow 
— fair and rosy and with blue eyes, a kind you 
don’t often find in these parts — and under his 
big fierce yellow moustache he had a very 
friendly smile. At first he didn’t say anything 
to me, but when he saw me cracking my 
walnuts with my teeth he could not hold his 
tongue. “The deuce!” he cried. “You’ve 
got a pair of iron nippers in those jaws of 
yours, youngster, and no mistake ! ” 

He went on cracking his own walnuts with 
a Rhone cobble-stone, smiling pleasantly and 
giving the kernels to his wife and little boy. 
As for me, I was both abashed and pleased by 


8o 


Eebs of t\)C iHibi. 


his taking notice of me. I grinned foolishly, 
and looked down, and did not dare to answer 
him. His big plumed hat, his blue coat with 
its red facings, his long sword — curved like a 
partly straightened sickle — upset me and filled 
me with admiration. I couldn’t help thinking 
how splendid it would be to have such a man 
for a father — even for a cousin, a friend! 

Suddenly he stood up and looked over the 
crowd. “They’re tapping the barrels,” he 
said, and held out his hand to his wife for a 
straw-covered bottle that was lying by her 
side. Then, seeing my little brown gourd, he 
said: “If that’s empty, give it to me and I’ll 
get it filled for you.” 

Empty it was, for I had drained it on the 
road, and without daring even to say thank 
you I gave it to him ; and off he went through 
the press up toward the end of the square, 
where the crowd was packed close around six 
big wine-casks ranged beneath the wall of the 
Cardinal’s palace in a row. The casks had 
just been tapped — and I can tell you the crowd 
went for them ! For a moment we saw our sol- 
dier shouldering his way in among the people; 
then we saw only his hat; and at last we saw 
only his red feather, as it went bobbing up and 
down among the heads in the distance. 


Hcbs of tl)e iUibi. 


8i 


In ten minutes or so he got back to us — his 
bottle and my gourd as full as they would hold. 
His moustache was all wet, and little red drops 
of wine hung from the tip of each of its hairs. 

“ Father,” called out the little boy as soon 
as he saw him, “ 1 want some more grapes.” 

“There are no more grapes. You shall 
have some wine.” 

“No, I want grapes.” 

“ But I tell you they are all gone.” 

“Come, darling, drink the nice wine,” 
said his mother, holding the full bottle to his 
lips. 

“No, no, I want grapes.” 

I had not yet eaten my grapes. I got up 
and handed my bunch to the child, saying: 
“ There, little fellow, eat these,” and 1 felt my 
cheeks getting red again. 

“What, deny yourself for that little glut- 
ton! I really can’t have it,” said the soldier. 

“ Please,” said I, “ let him eat my grapes. 
He is such a dear little boy.” 

“You are very kind,” said the mother, 
smiling at me. And then, taking the grapes 
and giving them to the child, she made him 
thank me for them with a little bow. 

“You don’t seem quite like one of our Avi- 
gnon people,” the soldier said as he handed 


82 


9ri)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


me back my gourd. “I don’t want to know 
what isn’t my business, but do you belong 
here ?” 

“No,” I answered, “I am from Male- 
mort.” 

“ And what do you come here for ? ” 

“ I don’t know exactly. But I have a letter 
for Monsieur le Chanoine Jusserand, who is to 
find me some way of getting a living. Could 
you tell me where he lives ? ” 

At this my soldier frowned, and looked at 
me so hard that he frightened me. “ What! ” 
he cried. “ A letter to Canon Jusserand! Then 
you must be an Aristo, a Papalist ! ” 

“1.?^ 1 don’t know just what you mean. 
But 1 don’t think that I’m a Papalist.” 

“Then what do you want with Canon Jus- 
serand ? ” 

“ I was told he would give me some work 
to do.” 

“Why, don’t you know that Canon Jus- 
serand is an Aristo ? He won’t find work for 
any but Papalists, that’s sure. But you seem to 
be a nice sort of a boy, and I’ll tell you what to 
do if the Canon receives you badly. Come and 
look for me in the guard-room in the Hotel de 
Ville on the Place de I’Horloge, and I will see 
that you get into the National Guard. I’ll 


®lic Hebs of tl)e iUibi. 


83 


take you in my own company. How old are 
you ? ” 

“ I must be sixteen, more or less,” said I — 
adding on at least a year. 

“That’s all right. You can be enrolled if 
you’re sixteen. Then that’s settled, is it ? Now 
I’ll show you how to go. Take that narrow 
street over there, just in front of us. Keep 
down it and turn to the left and you’ll be in 
the Rue du Limas. There you will see a house 
with a balcony, and that is where the old 
Canon lives.” 

As he said this he turned toward his wife 
and I saw him winking and making a sign to 
her. She answered him by laughing a little; 
and then, getting up and coming in front of 
me, she unfastened a tricolor cockade from her 
Catalan cap as she said: “Now that you are a 
good Patriot and hate the Papalists, I will give 
you my cockade.” And when she had fas- 
tened it into my hat she turned to her husband 
and added: “ See how jaunty he looks! You 
are right, he will make a pretty National 
Guard.” 

And then the soldier slapped me on the 
back and shouted, and I shouted after him: 
“Vive la Nation! Down with the Legate! ” 

“Now,” said he, “go find your Canon. 


84 


Ql\)c Hcbs of tlje illibi. 


But don’t forget what I said. You know where 
to look for me if he turns you off. Ask for 
Sergeant Vauclair.” 

“Thank you very much,” I answered. “ I 
won’t forget.” And, so saying, I left him — 
all upset, and not knowing whether it were 
fear or joy that made something leap so in my 
breast. 

It was very hard work getting across the 
crowded square, as 1 had to squirm through 
the crowd and break the farandole. But as 
soon as 1 reached the narrow way that led to 
the Rue du Limas there was no one to be seen 
but a few old men, and in the Rue du Limas 
itself there was not even so much as a cat. 
This was the quarter of the Whites, the Aristo- 
crats. Every door, every shutter, was tightly 
barred. But 1 knew that there were people in 
the houses for 1 could hear voices; and in some 
that 1 passed women loudly telling their beads. 

1 went straight to the house with the balcony 
and knocked. In a moment a little window 
was opened over head ; but before 1 could look 
up it was clapped to again, and 1 did not see 
any one. 

Then 1 heard doors open and shut inside 
the house and the sound of footsteps in the 
corridor, and then the creaking of the two 


Et'bs of tl)e iHiM. 


85 


bolts as they were drawn back and the grating 
of the big key as it was turned twice in the 
lock. At last the latch was raised and the 
great door was opened the very smallest bit. 

A sour-faced old woman, yellow as saffron, 
peeked at me through the crack and in a sharp 
voice asked : “ What do you want ? ” 

“I want to see Monsieur le Chanoine Jus- 
serand,” 1 answered. 

Then she opened the door wider, and I took 
a step forward. But before 1 could cross the 
threshold she gave a scream as if I had been for 
killing her, snatched off my hat, and fell to 
yelling: “Help! Jesus Maria, help! A brigand 
in the house! Help! Help! We’re all lost! ” 
The old fury jerked the tricolor cockade 
out of my hat and tore it to pieces with her 
crooked fingers; spit on my hat, and flung it 
into the street; and then, still howling for help, 
she trampled on the scraps of my cockade 
while she held up her petticoats as if she were 
crushing a scorpion. Finally she gave a fierce 
yell out of her big mouth — as big as an oven, 
and the single fang in it as long as the tooth of , 
a rake; pushed me so hard that I almost fell 
down, and then clapped the door to with a 
bang. In another second the two bolts grated 
again as they were shot back into their places, 

8 


86 


Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


and the big key locked and double-locked the 
door. 

1 was struck all of a heap by this outburst. 

I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. But by 
this time all the windows in the neighbour- 
hood were open and from everywhere women 
were screaming: “There’s a brigand in the 
street! To the Rhone with him! To the 
Rhone! ” — and as 1 stooped to pick up my hat 
from the gutter a shower of brickbats and tiles 
and stones came down around me. 1 was only 
too glad to get out of that Rue du Limas — 
where, without in the least meaning to, 1 had 
kicked up such a row. 

1 felt as silly as a soused cat as I went back 
to the square of the Palace; and there 1 mixed 
in with the crowd and stared at the farandole 
till nightfall. 1 turned over and over in my 
head all that had passed, trying to make sense 
of it. 1 had spoken politely to the lady in the 
Rue du Limas. Why then had she treated me 
as if 1 were a robber or a murderer.? Why 
had she torn off my cockade ? Why had all 
her neighbours called out: “To the Rhone 
with him! To the Rhone with him!” 1 had 
done no harm to anybody. Then why should 
1 be hooted at and stoned ? 

1 looked around me and thought bitterly: 


Eebs of tl)e iUiM. 


87 


“Here are all these people, eating, drinking, 
dancing, singing. Each one has a home and a 
bed to go to. I am the only one here who has 
no shelter for the night, no relations, no friends. 
In the only place where I had any right to go, 

I was treated like a robber.” I found myself 
wanting to get back to the o^d times when. the 
sow took the cabbage-stalk from me. What 
was I good for anyway ? What would become 
of me ? 

Then I began to think of the Rhone, the 
great Rhone, just as I had thought of the pond 
at La Garde. There was, to be sure, the sol- 
dier Vauclair, who had spoken kindly to me 
and who seemed to be a good man. But 
most likely he had but made fun of me when 
he said I should be enrolled in his company of 
the National Guard. 

Night was coming on fast. The Palace 
square was emptying rapidly, only one or two 
tamhourins were left and the farandole was 
breaking up. I saw one of the three nuns 
going off arm in arm with two soldiers. A 
few tipplers still hung around the wine-casks, 
standing them up on end so as to drain out the 
very last drop. 

I went on the Place de I’Horloge. People 
there were stepping out briskly, for the cold 


88 


Eebs of tlje illiM. 


began to nip. Only a single lamp was lighted, 
the one over the entrance to the Hotel de Ville 
— where people were coming out and going in 
all the time. 1 did not dare to enter to ask for 
my National Guardsman. 1 was afraid that I 
would only be laughed at and turned away. 
Up and down 1 walked in the dark, thinking 
what 1 had better do. At last 1 made up my 
mind. The kind-looking soldier certainly had 
told me to ask for him ; and, after all, if things 
went wrong 1 still had the Rhone to fall back 
on. And so, plucking up courage, 1 ventured 
within the entrance and peered through a glass 
door into the lighted up guard-room in the 
hope that 1 might see my friend. 

As 1 stood there, staring, the Porter came 
out of his room and clapped his hand on my 
shoulder: “Now then, what are you after 
here ? ” he asked. 

“I want to see Monsieur Vauclair," I an- 
swered. “Is he inside there ? ” 

“There are no ‘monsieurs’ here; we are 
all citizens,” said the Porter. “This smells of 
treason,” he went on. “It must be looked 
into.” And holding fast to my shoulder, so 
that 1 felt his five fingers digging into me 
like claws, he called out: “ Sergeant, Sergeant 
Vauclair!” 


®l)e Ecbs 0f tlje iUibi. 


89 


The glass door of the guard-room opened 
instantly and out came my handsome Guards- 
man — bare-headed, his moustache twirled 
up and his pipe in his mouth. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” he asked. 

“Look here,” said the Porter, “do you 
know this sprout ? To my mind he has the 
mug of an Aristo. Maybe he’s a spy. He 
asked for ‘Monsieur’ Vauclair.” 

“Oh, it’s you, youngster, is it.^ You’re 
pretty late,” said Vauclair kindly. “And so 
the Canon wouldn’t have anything to do with 
you, eh ? Well, you’ll be better off here. 
Come, I’ll enroll you right off. Vive la Na- 
tion!” 

He took me by the hand, while the Porter 
said doubtfully: “Oh, you know him, do 
you ? All the same, look out for him. 1 haven’t 
any use for people who say ‘monsieur’! ” 

The Porter went back into his quarters, 
still grumbling, and Vauclair led me into the 
guard-room. It was a long narrow room, 
lighted by a big lamp hung from the ceiling 
by a chain, and in its middle a good stove 
was roaring away. Along the walls were 
benches on which the men of the Guard were 
sitting, smoking and talking; and at the far end 
were rough wooden bunks in which they 


90 


®l)e Kcbs of tl)e iHibi. 


slept. Guns and swords and cocked hats were 
hanging on the walls; and the walls were 
pretty well covered with all sorts of fool-pic- 
tures of soldiers done with charcoal, and with 
scribblings which I suppose were writing — but 
I didn’t know what writing was, in those days. 
The pipe-smoke was thick enough to cut with 
a knife. Everybody was smoking — except 
one man who had laid his head down on his 
arms on the table and was sound asleep. 

“Comrades, here’s a new recruit for the 
Revolution — a volunteer for our Company,” 
said Vauclair as we entered the room. And 
then, turning to me, he added: “That’s so, 
youngster, isn’t it.^ Now then, speak out — 
Liberty or Death! Vive la Nation! ” 

I was beginning to get the hang of things a 
little by this time. Standing on the tips of my 
toes to make myself taller, and swinging my 
hat above my head, I shouted: “Vive la Na- 
tion! Liberty or Death! ” and all the National 
Guardsmen cried after me: “Liberty or 
Death ! ” 

The noise woke up the soldier who was 
snoring on the table. Rubbing his eyes and 
looking around him sleepily he called out: 
“Why the devil are you all making such a 
row ? ” 


^\)c Eebs of tl)e iltibi. 


91 


“Here’s a new volunteer,” said Vauclair, 
leading me up to the table. “ Get the roster 
and we’ll enroll him right off.” 

“ Good for him! ” the man answered. 

By this time he was quite awake and had 
brought out from the drawer of the table the 
roster of the Company and the form of enlist- 
ment that was to be filled in. Spreading the 
papers out before him and dipping his pen in 
the ink-bottle, he turned to me and said : 

“ Your name. Citizen ?” 

“ Pascalet.” 

“ Your father’s name ? ” 

“ Pascal.” 

“ Hasn’t he any other name than Pascal?” 

“ I never heard any.” 

“ Your mother’s name ? ” 

“ La Patine.” 

“La Patine? Isn’t she called also Gothon 
or Janetoun or Babette ? ” 

“1 don’t know. I never heard her called 
anything but La Patine.” 

“Well, we’ll put it down La Patine, any- 
way. Where were you born ? ” 

“At Malemort in the Comtat.” 

“ That’s all right. Now sign your name.” 

I had to tell him that I couldn’t; that I 
didn’t know how. 


92 


QTlje Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


“No matter,” said Vauclair taking my 
hand. “You don’t know how to write with 
black ink, but we’ll teach you to write with 
red ! Where is the quarter-master ? Ah, there 
you are, Berigot. Take this man to the equip- 
ment-room, and fit him out so that he may be 
ready to present himself properly under arms.” 

An old grumbler got up from the bench, 
shook out his pipe, lighted a lantern and 
nodded to me to follow him. We climbed up 
into Jacquemart’s clock-tower by a winding 
stair-case as steep as a ladder and so narrow 
that only one person could pass at a time. We 
went up and up and up. At last we reached 
a square room crammed full of soldier-clothes 
and cocked-hats and guns and swords. The 
quarter-master took a careful look at me and 
then, turning to the heap of clothes, rummaged 
all through it and finally dragged out a coat. 
“There, that will fit you,” said he. “Try 
it on.” 

Oh what a lovely coat it was! To be sure 
it had been worn a good deal and was a little 
thread-bare — but what difference did that make ! 
It was of dark green cloth with a large turned- 
back red collar, and it had beautiful gilt buttons, 
and fine long tails that flapped against my 
calves. It certainly was very much too big 


Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


93 


for me all over, and the sleeves were so long 
that they came down to the tips of my fingers. 
But 1 held my tongue about its bigness and 
quietly turned up the sleeves ; and, as the coat 
was lined with red, this gave me a pair of red 
cuffs like my collar. 

Having got my coat, 1 had next to get a 
hat; and this bothered me badly. 1 must have 
tried on between twenty and thirty — and they 
all came down to my ears. At last the quarter- 
master lost all patience and called out: “Te! 
Put on that red cap : then you’ll be rigged like 
the Marseilles Federals.” 

I put on the pretty red cap. Its tip fell 
over well down to my shoulder, and on its 
side was stuck a full-blown cabbage of a 
cockade! 1 was delighted with it; and with 
the fine pair of blue breeches and the snowy 
white gaiters which the quarter-master tossed 
over to me, saying that 1 needn’t bother about 
trying them on as breeches and gaiters always 
fitted everybody. “ And now,” said he, “you 
want a sword and a gun. Pick out what you 
like and let’s get through.” 

It didn’t seem possible that I really was to 
have a sword and a gun, and I was so upset 
that I took the first gun that I laid my hands 
on. But about the sword I was more careful. 


94 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e HXibi. 


I wanted a long curved sword, like Vauclair’s; 
and those in the heap seemed to be all straight 
and short. I turned the heap topsy-turvy with- 
out finding what 1 wanted; and as 1 was fuss- 
ing altogether too long over it old Berigot 
called out to me: “What are you making 
such a to-do about ? Don’t you see one is as 
good as another ? With a touch of the whet- 
srtone any of ’em ’ll cut like razors. Take one 
and come along.” And so 1 had to be satisfied 
with a short straight sword, after all. 

Berigot fastened the door behind us, and 
down we went. 1 had more than a load to 
carry; and my gun kept catching against the 
wall, and my sword all the while was sliding 
in between my legs and tripping me — so that 
two or three times 1 nearly pitched head over 
heels down the narrow stairs — and, altogether, 
1 was as bothered as a donkey in a cane-brake. 
And then when we got back to the guard- 
room all the men came around me and every 
one had something to say. “The cap doesn’t 
fit badly,” said one; “He’ll grow up to his 
sword,” said another; “The coat is only a 
span or two too long,” said a third. 

“Oh, come now,” Vauclair broke in, “don’t 
bother the boy with your nonsense. He’s all 
right. Come along, Pascalet, you shall sleep 


QL[\c of tl)e illiiri. 


95 


in my quarters to-night; and before you are 
up in the morning my wife will have your coat 
to fit you like your skin. All it needs is a tuck 
in the sleeves and a little shortening. Come, 
we’ll go now. You must be about used up 
by this time. You shall have a bite and a sup 
with us and half of my little boy’s bed ; and to- 
morrow I’ll take you to the drill outside the 
ramparts — and I tell you we’ll rattle the Aris- 
tos later on ! ” 

He loaded me up with my sword and gun 
and gaiters and all the rest, and together we 
left the Hotel de Ville; and then went on 
through one crooked street after another to the 
little Place du Grand Paradis. Here we en- 
tered a tidy little house, at the corner of the 
Rue de la Palapharnerie, and found ourselves in 
the dark at the foot of a spiral stair. 

“Lazuli! Lazuli!” Vauclair called, but no 
one answered. “She must be at the club,” 
he said. “No matter, we’ll find the door 
somehow.” 

We groped our way up the narrow stairs, 
where my gun and sword again bothered me, 
and so to the second floor and into a little 
room that was kitchen and living-room and 
bedroom all in one — though the bed was hid- 
den away in an alcove at one side. 


96 


Eeb0 of tl)e illiM. 


Vauclair got out the flint and steel and tin- 
der, and when he had a spark going he started 
a flame on a sliver of hemp-stalk dipped in 
sulphur, and with that lighted the candle. All 
this time he was storming away at his wife. 

“And so Lazuli must needs go to the club,” 
he growled. “1 should like to know if clubs 
are women’s business! As if men were not 
strong enough to defend Holy Liberty and our 
beautiful Revolution!” This started him on 
another tack, and away he went on it: “We 
must have our Republic. We want it, and 
we mean to get it. We’ll show King Capet, 
the traitor, that when we ask for figs we won’t 
take thistles. Didn’t he try to make us believe 
that he was on his way to get help for us when 
we stopped him at the frontier ? And all the 
while, traitor that he is, he meant to put him- 
self at the head of the nation’s enemies. He is 
about a span too tall, that rascal King! He 
needs shortening — and if the stomachs of the 
Paris folks give out in that matter we and the 
Marseilles Federals will go up and do the work 
for them. Yes, we’ll bleed him, finely — just 
under his jowls! And as to his wife, his Aus- 
trian carrion of a wife, we’ll give her a donkey- 
ride back-foremost — as she deserves. She’s 
the real traitor; it’s she who’s always egging 


Eeb0 of tl)e iUibi. 


97 


on the King. And then we’ll attend to the tail 
the King drags around after him, the counts 
and the marquises and the court-followers, 
and we will shorten every one of them by the 
same good span ! ” 

All the time that Vauclair was ranting 
away, while 1 was standing stiff and watching 
him and drinking in his words, he was busy 
getting the supper ready: setting the little 
table with three places, getting out a big loaf 
of bread and a jug of wine, and then bringing 
from the fire-place an earthen dish in which 
was simmering gently a most delicious-smell- 
ing stew. When all was ready he looked into 
the inner room and then said to me: “Clair- 
efs asleep; and as to Lazuli, we won’t wait 
for her. Come, sit down and eat your sup- 
per; and then get to bed and asleep as fast 
as you can. You’ll be started out early to- 
morrow, you know.” 

But just as we were beginning on the 
bread and stew in came Lazuli, quite excited 
and very much out of breath. “You mustn’t 
blame me for being late,” she said. “Of 
course you know, you good Vauclair, that I’ve 
only been at the club. I’ve just left there. 
And you’ll never guess what’s happened, I’m 
sure.” 


98 


Qi[}c Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


“Then I won’t try,” said Vauclair. “ What 
is it ?” 

But instead of answering him Lazuli looked 
toward me and said: “And so you’ve got a 
companion. Isn’t it the little mountain boy 
who was with us on the steps of the Pope’s 
Palace ? And doesn’t he make a nice-looking 
soldier, to be sure ! His coat’s a trifle too big 
for him — but I’ll fix that in no time. Sit down 
now, my dear, and you too, Vauclair, and I’ll 
tell you the news.” 

“Well, crack away then,” said Vauclair, as 
he helped the stew and then cut a chunk of 
bread off the loaf for each of us. “What is 
your news, anyway ? ” 

“It’s bad news,” Lazuli answered. “It’s 
a letter from the Deputy Barbaroux up at Paris 
to the Federals at Marseilles, his own people. 
It was read out to us at the club. It says that 
the Aristos at Paris are having things all their 
own way. That the King won’t allow the 
battalions of Federals come up from the coun- 
try to camp inside Paris. That the Paris men 
are no better than capons and are turning 
around to the King’s side, and that the Na- 
tional Guard of Paris can’t be made to do any- 
thing because it is rotten to the marrow of its 
bones. And so Barbaroux says that it’s good- 


Ueb0 of tl)e illiM. 


99 


bye to the Revolution unless something is done 
right off— and he says that the Reds of the 
Midi must do it; that our Federals, our sans- 
culottes, down here in the South, must get out 
their swords and their guns and come up to 
Paris with the war-cry of Liberty or Death! ” 

I had taken three or four mugs of wine — for 
I was very thirsty, and as fast as I emptied my 
mug Vauclair filled it again — and when I heard 
Liberty or Death ! that way, it was too much 
for me. “ Liberty or Death ! ” I cried, standing 
up and flourishing my knife in the air. “ Lib- 
erty or Death ! That Barbaroux — whoever he 
is — is right. / am one of the Reds of the 
Midi! / am a sans-culotte ! / am a Federal! 

/ am one of those he wants in Paris — and I’ll 
go! I’ll get my revenge on the Marquis and 
on Monsieur Robert, and on that devil of a 
Surto; and I’ll revenge the Liberals who were 
stabbed to death in the hospital, too. Now I 
understand why my father said that the Mar- 
quis and Monsieur Robert were going to Paris 
to help the King. But I’ll go there too — now 
that I have a gun. We’ll all go there with our 
guns. Liberty or Death ! ” 

While I shouted 1 seemed to see ever so 
many lighted candles dancing on the tables. 
Lazuli looked lovelier than the golden angels on 


lOO 


Ecbs of tl)e ittibi. 


the altar of our church at Malerhort. Vauclair 
seemed as tall as one of our poplars on the 
Nesque — and the room seemed to be tipping 
up on end! 

“Bravo, bravo!” cried Vauclair. 

“Bravo!” cried the handsome Lazuli. 
“Thou wilt indeed be a good Patriot! Yes, 
we’ll all go to Paris singing the ‘ Carmagnole ’ ; 
and all of us, all the good Patriots, will join 
hands together and dance around in a great 
brandel ” 

I don’t remember well what happened after 
that. But 1 know that we three — all by our- 
selves — made a brande by joining hands and 
dancing around the table while we sang at the 
top of our voices the famous song of the free 
montagnards about dancing a farandole and 
planting the wild thyme that grows on the 
mountains and is the symbol of liberty. 

Planten la ferigoulo, 

Arrapara. 

Fasen la farandoulo 
E la mountagno flourira, 

E la mountagno flourira. 

And when the song and our dance was ended, 
Lazuli led me into the inner room, to the straw 
bed where her little boy was sleeping, and told 
me to lie down there. And my head had no 


Eeba of tl)e illibi. 


lOI 


more than touched the pillow than 1 was sleep- 
ing like a log. 

Old Pascal stopped short and gave La Mie 
a smack on the shoulder that made her jump. 
“You’re as sleepy as a little cat, yourself,” he 
said. “Get up and go to bed. To-morrow 
we’ll go at the story again.” 

The clock in the church steeple began to 
strike twelve. “Gosh! ” cried Lou Materoun, 
jumping up. “It’s midnight! What will my 
wife say to me ? I’ll catch it for a week! ” 

“Never mind, Lou Materoun,” said La Mie, 
as she held the light for us in the doorway. 
“We all know what your wife is. You have 
a hard road.” 

“Viper tongue! ” muttered my grandfather 
as we went off together in the dark. 


9 


CHAPTER IV. 


“THE MARSEILLAISE.’' 

The next day, being Sunday, there was no 
meeting at the shoemaker’s; for on Sundays 
the neighbours spent their time elsewhere. 
The old and the middle-aged folk went to the 
Cabaret Nou, where they played a sober game 
of boiirro and drank each one his little jug of 
white wine. The young and gay-minded folk 
ostensibly went off for a stroll in the secluded 
valleys of our mountain, where they surrepti- 
tiously gambled away their sous in playing a 
new-fangled game of chance called vendome. 
And 1, who was too little for any such doings, 
went to bed when night came feeling as flat as 
a quoit; and saying to myself; “Suppose the 
shoemaker should take a fancy to make a holi- 
day of Monday too and shut up his shop! ” 

Monday morning early 1 took the longest 
way to school, so that 1 might pass in front of 
the shop; and 1 was greatly reassured and 
heartened when, from a long way off, I saw 


iHarseillaise.” 


103 


the shutters open and heard the tap-tapping of 
hammer on sole. ‘‘All right!” thought I. 
'‘To-night old Pascal will go on with his 
story.” 

That evening, in good time, 1 was seated 
on my little bench in the warm little shop — 
which smelt as usual of shoemaker’s wax and 
soaking leather, while overhead floated the 
usual bluish cloud of pipe-smoke. 

Presently old Pascal stepped over the thresh- 
old, and without waiting for any one to ask 
him to begin he broke forth into one of his 
declamatory chants : 

All laws are the work of the rich for the hurt of the needy ; 
Always the rich have too much, and always the poor have 
too little; 

And 1 say that the man who has more than his share is a 
robber ! 

I say that of right belongs bread to him who is faint and 
an-hungered ; 

That his is the right to seize it wherever he finds it — 

And the day in which bread is too scarce shall sharp knives 
be too plenty ! 

“What do you mean.? What are you 
driving at with all that gabble, anyway?” 
spoke up Lou Materoun. 

“What 1 am driving at,” Pascal answered 
as he sat down, “is to tell you that 1 can not 
understand how for century after century men 


104 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


went on starving and took no thought of re- 
venge. You can not even fancy, you who live 
now-a-days, what was the lot of a poor man, 
a man of the people, less than a hundred years 
ago. But 1, who have felt it in my body and 
who have seen it with my eyes, do know 
what it was; and that is the life 1 am telling 
you about now. And now that you know 
what 1 am driving at. I’ll go on with my 
story.” 

1 went to bed beside Vauclair’s little boy 
and made but one nap of the night, sleeping 
as sound as a top until morning came. 1 was 
tired out, my mind was easy, and 1 had drunk 
a good deal of strong wine — and all that joined 
together to give me the blessed soft sleep that 
does one so much good and that is, perhaps, 
the best thing in life. 

My sleep had been so deep that at the first 
flowering of day, when 1 saw the window-panes 
whitening with the morning light, it was a little 
while before 1 could tell where 1 was — or be 
sure that all that had passed the day before 
had not been a dream. But 1 knew it was no 
dream when, through the half-opened door- 
way, 1 saw Lazuli in the kitchen hard at work 
needle in hand; a thin fine short needle that 


iHarseillaise.” 


105 


flashed and glanced like a star-ray between her 
fingers as she busily made over my National 
Guard coat, spread out upon her knees. 

Vauclair, seated beside her, was cleaning 
my gun and changing the flint in it; and both 
of them were as quiet as mice so as not to wake 
me. But though they said nothing, every now 
and then Lazuli would turn toward her husband 
and would show him the coatsleeve with the 
alterations she had made ; and he, with a nod 
of his head, would answer: “Yes, yes, that’s 
all right.” Then Lazuli, biting short the thread 
with a sharp snap, would go to work again. 
She ended off by polishing up the buttons — 
the pretty gilt buttons, as bright as those on 
the coat of Monsieur le Marquis d’Ambrun. 

I couldn’t bear to let them think 1 was still 
asleep; and, as 1 did not venture to speak, 1 
began to cough. 

“Eh,” said Vauclair, greatly pleased, “so 
he’s awake ” — and came on tip-toe to the door 
of the room; and when he saw the gleam of 
my open eyes he added: “Well, bad boy, and 
so you’re already awake. It’s a little too 
early; but no matter, get up and try on your 
coat.” 

Try on my coat! That made me jump out 
of bed and into my so longed-for coat in a 


io6 


Qi\)c Eebs 0 f tl)e MiM. 


flash ; and I swore it fitted me like a ring fits 
the finger. Lazuli, smiling as she looked crit- 
ically at me, smoothed down the wrinkles 
with her hand; for although she had taken it 
in everywhere it still was big enough for all 
out of doors! She buttoned it and unbut- 
toned it. 

“Perhaps I had better take it in a little 
more under the arms,” she said doubtfully. 

“It fits, it fits!” 1 cried, afraid that she 
would make me take it off. 

Vauclair, accepting the matter as settled, 
hung over my shoulders the yellow strap sup- 
porting my short straight sword — shaped ex- 
actly like the tails of those green crickets which 
swarm after harvest — and as the strap was a 
large one the sword hung pretty low and 
banged against my calves. 1 got into my blue 
breeches, and buckled on my gaiters — which 
were a little too long and too wide and so came 
well down over my pretty shoes. As the final 
touch, Vauclair took up my cap with its red 
white and blue cockade. He held it open with 
his outspread fingers and walked solemnly 
toward me, carrying it in front of him rever- 
ently as it had been the Host. Still holding it 
open he fitted it on my head, carefully arrang- 
ing the tip so that it should fall over just in the 


“®lic iHarseillaisc/’ 


107 


way it is represented in the busts of the Re- 
public. Then he stepped back and gazed at 
me. Delighted with his work, he clapped his 
hands as he exclaimed : “ There’s a sans-culotte 
fit to fight in the Heavenly Host! There’s a 
fellow to take to Paris when we go to make 
the King cry mercy 1 ” 

Lazuli handed me my stuff jacket saying, 

“ Look and see what there is in your pockets.” ’ 
1 timidly drew out the letter Monsieur Randoulet 
had given me for Monsieur le Chanoine Jusse- 
rand and stuffed it into my coat pocket so as to 
hide it away; for the letter made me feel con- 
fused and ashamed. I did not know exactly 
why, but it seemed to me as if this bit of paper, 
which had been my only hope, now might 
be the cause of my perdition. And yet 1 could 
not help valuing it. I felt that 1 must keep it, 
so as to touch it from time to time; for then it 
would seem as though I touched the soft kind 
friendly hand of good Monsieur Randoulet. 
Out of the other pocket 1 took the three pretty 
white crowns of three francs each. These 1 
did not wish to keep. 1 gave them to Lazuli, 
saying, “Keep them for me, please.” And 
Lazuli, putting them in the little box that held 
her ornaments and locking them safe in the 
drawer of her cupboard, answered: “There, 


Eeba of tl)e illibi. 


io8 


you see where they are — when you want them, 
you have only to ask for them.” 

From that day on I became one of the little 
family in the Place du Grand Paradis. 

I should tire you out were I to tell in detail 
all that 1 saw and all that 1 did during the five 
or six months that 1 spent in Avignon. Each 
day at early morning I was drilled with the 
others outside the city walls, with street-boys 
playing tip-cat and old people sunning them- 
selves around us. By day or by night, in all 
weathers, I took my turn in mounting guard : 
at the door of the Pope’s Palace, in front of the 
Hotel de Ville, on the banks of the Rhone, at 
the Escalier de Sainte-Anne, or — and this I 
liked best of all — by the semaphore on the top 
of the Rocher des Dorns. Hour after hour I 
gaped at that semaphore, never tired of watch- 
ing its two black arms whirling about so 
strangely up there in the air; arms which shut 
themselves up, spread out, folded together, un- 
folded again, and opened and closed like two 
big razors. 

And I saw good times and bad times, stab- 
bings and embracings, murders and makings 
up, excitement and sorrow, sad doings and 
gay doings, scrimmages, farandoles, and sol- 
emn processions. Now the deep chant of the 


iHarseillaisc/’ 109 


7e Deum rang out, now the gay notes of the 
“Carmagnole.” 'Y\\q, De Profundis would be 
solemnly intoned while the “ ^a ira ” was 
howling out from excited throats. 

Sometimes one party, sometimes the other, 
would get the upper hand ; one day it was the 
Reds, the Patriots, another day the Whites, 
the Anti-Patriots. We often had to hurry to 
separate them — in one or another parish the 
alarm-bell was ringing all the time. And 
whenever we came back to barracks from drill 
or from guard-mount or from quieting a row, 
whether by day or by night, each man had his 
little flask of cordial-wine and his three ounces 
of massopain ; and so wild were the times, so 
often were we out on service, that we fairly 
could count on getting our three flasks a day 
— so we were pretty well pampered with our 
cake and wine. And always in the evenings 
those of us who were off duty spent our time 
at the club — where we could hear the last 
news from Paris and Marseilles. 

One day I Was stationed at the Porte du 
Rhone on guard over the Liberty Tree planted 
there by the Reds, which the Whites from the 
streets of the Fusterie had tried to pull down. 
It was about the end of June, right in the 
midst of the harvest. 1 am sure of the season 


no 


®l)e Eebs of tl)c iltiM. 


because the Liberty Tree was full of cigales, 
who were making a deafening noise — as is 
their custom in mid-harvest — with their song: 
“Sego, sego, sego! Sickle, sickle, sickle!” 
I was watching for a chance to catch a cigale 
for Lazuli’s little boy, when suddenly the alarm- 
bell rang out from the bell-tower of the Augus- 
tines; and a minute later a man pale as plaster 
came tearing down the Rue de la Fusterie 
shouting as he ran: “Save yourselves! Save 
yourselves! The Marseilles brigands are com- 
ing! Call home your children! Bar your 
doors and windows! The robbers and mur- 
derers and galley-slaves are coming! We’re 
all lost!” and, still shouting, the pale man ran 
round into the Rue du Limas and disappeared 
in the direction of the Porte de I’Oulle. 

It was a sight to see the washwomen, who 
were at work on the banks of the Rhone, all 
scamper away! They left behind them their 
bundles of linen, their shirts outspread to dry. 
They left aprons, baskets, jugs and buckets. 
Frightened as though a mad dog were after 
them, or as if a wild bull had got loose, scream- 
ing, flourishing their arms, they tore into their 
houses — and for a moment, in the whole 
quarter of the Porte du Rhone, nothing could 
be heard but the noise of doors and win- 


iHarBeillaise. 


Ill 


dows banging to and of clattering bolts and 
bars! 

But from the other side, that of the Porte 
de la Ligne, rose up a great clamour of joyous 
cries and songs : 

Dansons la Carmagnole! 

Vive le son! Vive le son! 

Then loud hand-clappings and exclamations 
of joy, and tambourins beginning to beat the 
farandole; and at the same moment the alarm- 
bell rang again. 

‘'Good Heavens! ” said 1, when the alarm 
sounded, “ 1 must be off; ” and “One! Two!” 
up went my gun on my shoulder. “Right 
about, face ” — and away 1 went at a quick-step 
to join the Corps de Garde at the Hotel de 
Ville. 

What an uproar! The whole Place de 
I’Horloge, blazing with sunlight, was crammed 
full of people, all talking and shouting and 
gesticulating at once; while Vauclair, in front 
of the Hotel de Ville, was getting into line the 
men of the Garde Nationale. Drawn together 
by the sound of the alarm-bell, they were run- 
ning in from all the streets — some of them only 
partly dressed, their straps thrown over their 
shoulders, their guns tucked under their arms, 


II2 


QL\)C Eeira of tlje ilTibi. 


buttoning their breeches as they ran ; and here 
and there was a running woman carrying her 
half-breeched husband’s gun. 

No one seemed to know what had hap- 
pened. Some cried: “It’s the Whites, the 
Papalists, come from Carpentras to fight us.” 
Others answered: “No, ifs the peasants from 
Gadagne who have risen against their lord and 
are bringing him here a prisoner.” I could 
make nothing of what I heard as I pressed 
through the crowd to take my place in line. 
Vauclair, who was the sergeant on guard that 
day, saw me coming and called out sharply : 
“ Why are you so behindhand ? Hurry, hurry ! 
Lord’s Law, man, hurry!” 

“ Whafs it all about I asked as I fell in. 

“What’s it all about repeated Vauclair. 
“It is that the King of France is a traitor!” 
— and turning toward the crowd and brandish- 
ing his long sabre he cried loudly: “We are 
betrayed by our King!” And then, speak- 
ing to us of the Guard, he went on: “The 
Marseilles Battalion, on its way to Paris, passes 
through Avignon. We are going now to wel- 
come these brave Federals — Vive la Nation! ” 

“Vive la Nation!” answered the Guard. 

“ Vive la Nation! ” rose up the voice of the 
swarming crowd in a formidable shout. 


‘‘ QL\)c iUaraeillaise.’’ 


113 


And then came: '‘Forward, march!” — and 
off we started for the Porte du Limbert, all of 
us roaring together: 

Dance we the Carmagnole, 

Hurrah for the roar, the roar, the roar! 

Dance we the Carmagnole, 

Hurrah for the roar the cannon roar! 

Men, women, children, old and young, with 
one voice joined in the chorus — “Dansons la 
Carmagnole!” The windows fairly rattled as 
we swept along. 

In the narrow streets of the Bonneterig and 
of the Water-wheels there must have been at 
least ten thousand people packed so tight that 
they were fairly one on top of the other; and 
when those near the Porte du Limbert were at 
“ Dansons la Carmagnole! ” from the other end, 
up near the Rue Rouge, rang out the words 
“Vive le son du canon!” Mixed in with the 
words of the chorus were shouts of “Vive la 
Nation ! ” and “Vive les Marseillais ! ” The con- 
fusion and uproar were overpowering. When 
1 looked backward 1 could see nothing but 
open mouths, and eyes starting out of heads 
that touched each other. 

When this torrent of humanity had poured 
itself out of the porch of the Porte du Limbert 
we of the Guard ranged ourselves outside the 


®l)e Bebs of tl)e iHibi. 


114 


ramparts in two lines facing inward, ready to 
present arms to the Marseilles Battalion when 
it should pass between our files; and scarcely 
were we halted and in line when a swarm 
of children came running toward us from the 
Chemin de la Coupe d’Or screaming: “Here 
they are! Here they are! ” 

And then around the turn of the road, brave 
in their red-plumed cocked-hats, appeared 
Commandant Moisson and Captain Gamier. 
On seeing us they drew their long sickle-like 
sabres, faced about upon the Battalion, and 
cried: “Vive la Nation!” — and instantly the 
men fell into marching-step and all together 
burst forth with 

Aliens enfants de la Patrie, 

Le jour de gloire est arrive! 

It was the “ Marseillaise ” that they were sing- 
ing; and that glorious hymn, heard then for the 
first time, stirred us down to the very marrow 
of our bones! 

On they came — a big fellow carrying at 
their head a banner on which was painted in 
red letters: “ The Rights of Man ”; and if any 
person looked askance at that banner the big 
fellow seized him in a moment and made him 
kiss it on his knees ! On they came — we pre- 


QL\)C ilXarseillaise/’ 


115 


sented arms and they passed between our files, 
still singing the “ Marseillaise.” 

Oh what a sight it was! Five hundred 
men sun-burnt as locust-beans, with black 
eyes blazing like live coals under bushy eye- 
brows all white with the white dust of the 
road. They wore green cloth coats turned 
back with red, like mine ; but farther than that 
their uniform did not go. Some had on cocked 
hats with waving cock’s feathers, some red 
liberty-caps with the strings flying back over 
their shoulders and the tri-colour cockade 
perched over one ear. Each man had stuck in 
the barrel of his gun a willow or a poplar 
branch to shelter him from the sun, and all this 
greenery cast warm dancing shadows over 
their faces that made the look of them still 
more fantastic and strange. And when from 
all those red mouths — wide open as a wolfs 
jaws, with teeth gleaming white like a wild 
beast’s teeth — burst forth the chorus “ Aux 
armes, citoyens! ” it fairly made a shiver run all 
down one’s spine! Two drums marked step 
— Pran ! rran ! rran ! “ Allons enfants de la Pa- 
trie!” The whole Battalion passed onward 
and was swallowed up in the city gate. 

As it disappeared we heard a strange noise 
like the clanking of chains or the rattle of loose 


ii6 


IJebs of tl)e iHibi. 


iron; and then came four men hauling after 
them a rusty truck on which was a cannon. 
These men were harnessed to the truck as are 
oxen to the plough, and like oxen pulled from 
head and shoulders. With every muscle at 
full stretch, and with sweat dripping from 
them like rain, they bent forward with all their 
might to their heavy task. Rumble and bang 
went the truck over the cobble-stones and 
into the ruts, making a tremendous noise as it 
jolted up and down and from side to side. 
Following this truck came another and still 
another; the last having on it an immense 
pair of bellows, a big wooden tub full of 
clay, a great thing that looked like a caul- 
dron, and pincers, hammers and tongs. This 
was the forge — for the repair of the guns, for 
the casting of balls, and for heating balls red 
hot before they should be fired. It took more 
than four men to drag this great mass — all 
straining forward like beasts of burden, the 
sinews of their calves starting and their feet so 
gripping the street that the nails in their shoes 
struck out sparks from the stones. Gasping 
though they were for breath, and almost 
spent with weariness, yet they too as they 
passed through our ranks raised their heads 
and with hoarse strangled voices shouted 


9[l)e iHarseillaise/’ 


117 


with the clipped Marseilles accent: “Vivo la 
Nacien! ” 

The blaze and glitter of sunshine, the 
whirlwinds of dust, the smell of hot human 
flesh, the rattle of drums, the clanking of iron, 
the singing and shouting — all this so dazed and 
transported me, so carried me away, that 1, 
Pascal, though 1 knew not why, felt tears as 
big as filberts rolling down my cheeks as 1 pre- 
sented arms! 

When in the wake of the Battalion the 
cannon and forge had passed by us, we came 
to a shoulder, closed up, and fell in at the rear. 
Far off ahead the rattling drums beat the quick- 
step; the Marseilles men sang “ Allons enfants 
de la Patrie ” ; and we and all the crowd joined 
in the chorus that we already had picked up : 
“ Aux armes, citoyens! ” 

Our backward line of march was through 
the street of the Water-wheels, the Place du 
Change, under the walls of the Palace of the 
Popes, and so into the Rue de la Banasterie to 
the Place du Grand Paradis — where the Patriots 
had their club in what had been the chapel of 
the Violet Penitents. But as we were turning 
the corner by the Rue des Encans we were 
stopped short, and around us we heard the 
people exclaiming that there was a halt ahead 
10 


Ecbs of tl)e iflibi. 


ii8 


that no one could understand. Some said that 
a Papalist had stabbed the Marseilles Com- 
mandant. Under Vauclair’s command, a dozen 
of us pushed rapidly through the crowd to find 
out what was the matter, and to do what- 
ever might be necessary to restore order. The 
trouble proved to be around the banner of The 
Rights of Man. 

In the narrowest part of the Rue Sainte 
Catherine the procession had met, returning 
from his vesper service at the Carmelites, an 
old Canon followed by his old serving- woman ; 
and when the lean old Canon saw the banner 
he turned up his nose at it and drew to a point 
his ill-natured muzzle in open contempt; and, 
worse than this, he actually cleared his throat 
and spit right at the feet of the banner-bearer! 
Furious at seeing the New Law so despised, its 
apostle had caught the poor old Canon by the 
nape of his neck, had forced him down to his 
knees on the stones and, thrusting the banner 
against his face, had tried to make him kiss it 
by force ; but old skin-and-bones had struggled 
hard against this humiliation, and his servant 
had come screaming and scratching to his aid. 
The crowd shouted: “To the Rhone with the 
Papalist!" “To the Rhone with the Anti- 
Patriot! " 


iHaraeillaise.” 


119 


Just as we came on the ground the Federal 
snatched up the Canon, who was as dry as a 
whip-handle, and tucked him under his arm — ■ 
kicking and struggling, with legs and arms 
outspread like a frog in a heron’s beak. Then 
the drums took up the march, and again rang 
out “ Allons enfants de la Patrie!” The Fed- 
eral marched off in front, one arm holding up 
his banner, the kicking Canon gripped fast 
under the other like a bundle of foolishness, 
and after him the old servant — who hung on 
with all her might to her master, trying to set 
him free. Why that dried up old man did not 
snap like a pipe-stem between them, I am sure 
I don’t know! 

And who was the most astonished person 
of all there ? Why I — for the old Canon was 
none other than Monsieur Jusserand, to whom 
Monsieur Randoulet had given me the letter; 
and the old serving-woman was the very 
woman who had torn off my cockade the day 
I knocked at his door in the Rue du Limas! 

On we went until we entered the club- 
room that had been the chapel of the Violet 
Penitents. There the Federal dumped the 
Canon on what had been the steps of the main 
altar, and then he and Commandant Moisson 
and Vauclair all sat down on the altar table 


120 


3[l)e Eeba of tl)e iHibi. 


with their legs dangling in a row. We of the 
Guard, with a few Avignon Patriots, formed 
our line to keep the crowd back while they 
spoke; and there was such pushing and strug- 
gling to get into the little chapel that its walls 
fairly shook — and all the while the drums went 
on beating and thousands of voices sang, or 
rather howled: “Auxarmes, citoyens!” 

The Federal who carried the banner of The 
Rights of Man stood up on the altar — a great 
long man, as thin as Pontius Pilate — and he 
was a sight to behold standing there in his hob- 
nailed shoes, his bare calves, his coat entirely 
too tight for him, and his bristling beard pow- 
dered white with road-dust! He took off his 
hat and feather and roughly stuck it on the 
bald pate of poor Canon Jusserand, who was 
crouched on the altar steps all in a heap, more 
dead than alive. Wiping his forehead with 
his coat sleeve, the Federal made a sign that he 
was going to read The Rights of Man. The 
drums stopped beating and a great silence fell 
over all; and then the Federal, with his mincing 
Marseilles accent, read out to us the New Law: 

All men are born free, and the birth-rights of all me*n are 
equal. 

All alike make the laws; all alike are the rulers and gov- 
erned. 


illarsciliaisc. 


I2I 


Broken the chains are, wide open the doors of the prisons. 
Masters exist not. No more are there slaves to be burthened. 
Each man has his share of the earth that begot and will 
claim him; 

Each man sows his crop, and each sower shall garner his 
harvest. 

In all things to all men is freedom — in acts and in thoughts 
and convictions. 

Ended the day is of King and of Marquis and lordling. 

Who aforetime toiled mole-like in darkness at will of his 
masters 

Stands erect in the light, and is governed alone by his 
reason. 

Vive la Nation! 

Then the Federal got down from the altar, 
seized the Canon by the throat, and this time 
fairly forced the banner to his lips. But the 
old stock-fish, who was not of the sort to stay 
conquered, no sooner felt himself let loose 
again than with a look of contempt he once 
more spat against the banner — and so pretty 
well cancelled his kiss. At this fresh insult 
the big Federal was quite beside himself with 
rage. Like a flash he pounced upon the Canon, 
held him for a moment by the scruff of his 
neck and the folds of his long gown, and then 
with a tremendous kick sent him flying over 
the heads* of those nearest the altar into the 
thick of the crowd. There was a shout of 
satisfaction, and then away went the Canon 


122 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


through the air from one pair of hands to an- 
other: now right side forward, now hind part 
before, now spinning around and around. 
And so — like a plank in the Rhone, whirling 
in the eddies but always going forward — he 
was flung hither and thither over the upturned 
faces until at last he was shot out of the door. 
And 1 must tell you, strange though it may 
seem, that seeing him thus abused hurt me in 
my heart — because I still had in my pocket 
that letter to him from good Monsieur Randou- 
let, and 1 felt as though an affront had been 
put upon our good Cure at Malemort. 

What became of the Canon 1 don’t know. 
No one paid any more attention to him ; for at 
that moment Vauclair stood up on the altar 
and began to read out — in order to make the 
people more clearly understand how good and 
great was the cause of the Revolution — the 
laws and ordinances with which the Pope’s 
Vice Legate so long had tied down and muzzled 
the people of Avignon : 

The poor man may moan, but the poor man must pay, 

Or he goes and he rots on the galley bench — 

While he who carries or pistol or dagger 
Will have a hemp necklace about his throat. 

Whoso speaks of the Legate or the Legate’s affairs, 

If not by the Legate condemned to die, 

Ten years in the galleys with robbers spends. 


“®l)e iltarseillaise.” 


123 


The man who cries “Rescue!” or “To arms!”, or who 
dares 

By a picture o'- a carving to offend the Legate, 

Will lose his life and forfeit his goods! 

“Oh come now, you can’t mean us to be- 
lieve all that,” exclaimed Lou Materoun; who, 
unable to keep his feelings to himself, broke 
into old Pascal’s chanted recital. 

“Then I’m a liar, am 1 ?” snorted old Pas- 
cal; and he glared so savagely at Lou Materoun 
that the big man, too abashed to venture upon 
an answer, made himself as small as he could on 
the bench and with eyes downcast flicked the 
ashes off his pipe on the floor between his knees. 

“ It is so true,” said Pascal, pacified by Lou 
Materoun’s meekness, “that I could show it to 
you printed in a book. I have heard many of 
these laws and ordinances, and I cannot re- 
member them all; but some of them I do re- 
member — and they were the laws, mark you, 
of my own time. It was forbidden to go out 
after the curfew had rung; and whosoever 
broke this law, and also carried with him a 
dark-lantern, was liable to have all his joints 
pulled apart in the strappado three times run- 
ning — or he might even be outlawed from the 
Comtat, at the Vice Legate’s will. It was for- 
bidden to compose, to write, to sing or to 


124 


SElje Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


cause to be sung, any songs that had anything 
whatever to do with politics; and whoever 
broke this law might be sent for ten years to 
the galleys and might have confiscated the hall 
of his estates.” 

“ Whew! ” exclaimed the cobbler. “That 
wasn’t an}^body’s twenty sous fine — as it is 
now-a-days.” 

Pascal continued: “And what will you all 
say when 1 tell you that did the Vice Legate 
still reign we all could be taken out and strung 
up in a row for the crime of assembling here 
together ? Such was the law — to which always 
was added : ‘ If it be the good pleasure of the 
Legate ’ ! ” 

“Lord alive!” put in Lou Materoun, this 
time flicking off his ashes properly into the 
coal-tub, “I’m glad 1 waited a while before I 
was born ! And do you mean to say that just 
for sitting together this way in company the 
Pope’s soldiers could have come in and jugged 
us ? Then in those days men were not men ? ” 

“They were men, as thou and 1 are men,” 
answered Pascal. “ But enough of that — those 
times are gone! ” 

Well, when Vauclair had finished reading 
out the Vice Legate’s Laws, the crowd went 


ilXarseiUais^/’ 


125 


hoarse with its shouting of “Vive la Nation! 
Vive la Revolution!” The women — huck- 
sters, washwomen, silkweavers — all with 
Catalan caps and tricolour cockades, were 
more wildly excited and made more noise than 
the men. They yelled, they screamed— and 
many of them flung themselves on the neck of 
the big Federal who carried The Rights of Man 
and fairly suffocated him with kisses. 

In the thick of this confusion a big coarse 
woman, a tripe-seller called La Jacarasse, came 
rushing forward — her hair streaming loose over 
her shoulders, her cap awry and its untied 
strings flying behind her — carrying in one hand 
a long knife and in the other a big bag of 
coarsely woven straw. She climbed to the 
top of the altar like a wild-cat, making a great 
display of stockingless legs, and when she had 
scrambled to her feet she flourished her knife 
and bag screaming: “You see this here knife ? 
For fifty years it has ripped up pigs — last year 
it ripped up that cursed jade of an Aristocrat 
who jabbed her scissors into Patriot Lescuyer’s 
face when the Papalists were killing him in the 
church of the Cordeliers. You see this here 
bag ? In it 1 carried her liver and lights and 
hung ’em on the latch of the Vice Legate’s 
palace — same as the old devil did himself with 


126 


Hebs of tl)e iilibi. 


the innards of Patriots he’d ordered killed.” 
And then, turning to the Federal who was 
holding the banner of The Rights of Man, she 
plumped two big kisses on his cheeks. The 
crowd applauded loudly; and “Vive la Na- 
tion!” shouted the Federal — but holding his 
nose, for the tripe-woman smelt vilely of her 
trade. 

The drums rolled again and Vauclair stood 
up straight in the very place where the taber- 
nacle had been, and cried out as he flourished 
his hat on the tip of his sabre: “To defend 
The Rights of Man and to drag down the ty- 
rant, I enroll myself as a volunteer in the Mar- 
seilles Battalion! ” 

In a moment we all were crazy with en- 
thusiasm, the drums rattled their approval as 
if they would burst, every arm was waving in 
the air, the Marseilles men shrieked “Long 
live the Avignon Patriots ! ” and in turn we 
shrieked “Long live the Marseilles Federals!” 
That was too much for me! For a moment 
everything went spinning around and around; 
and then, without at all knowing how I did it, 

I suddenly found myself standing on top of the 
altar, my red cap hoisted on top of my gun, 
screaming at the top of my voice: “Death to 
the tyrant! I too volunteer into the Marseilles 


iHarseillaise/' 


127 


Battalion!” And Zou! the drums, and Zou! 
the shrieks “Vive les Patriotes 1 ” “Vive les 
Federes! ” 

Far up in a corner of the chapel I caught 
sight of Lazuli, her little boy up on her shoul- 
der, both clapping hands and screaming: 
“Bravo, Pascalet! Bravo!” As I • pitched 
down from the altar Commandant Moisson 
caught me in his arms, and with a kiss on each 
cheek accepted my enlistment among his Mar- 
seillais. And then, louder than ever, rattlety- 
bang went the drums! 

The meeting was over. Some good Pa- 
triots, they were porters down by the river 
gates, called out: “To the Porte de la Ligne! 
There is cool wine there! ” 

“To the Porte de la Ligne! To the Porte 
de la Ligne!” shouted the crowd; and the 
Battalion, falling into line and followed by the 
cannon and the forge, went down to the 
Rhone — where there was enough bread and 
wine and olives and nuts and garlic for all the 
world! We ate, drank, sang and danced I 
don’t know how long. The great heat of the 
day was over, and the tambourins untiringly 
beat the farandole. But I was so stuck up 
with being enrolled in the Marseilles Battalion 
that I felt bound to behave like a grown man. 


128 


Eebs of tl)e ifliM. 


I scorned dance and song and victuals; I went 
swaggering from one group to another; I talked 
to the Marseilles men and made acquaintance 
with them, drinking a glass with one and 
touching cups with another. 

But one thing bothered me dreadfully — 1 
was so very young! Those to whom 1 spoke 
said: “ Good for you, little cock! What’s your 
name ? ” and then every one of them added : 
“How old are you.^” 1 answered them all 
bravely, trying to mince my words as they 
did: “My name’s Pascalet, 1 must be more 
than sixteen years old ” — and in order to look 
the age 1 gave myself 1 stood up as straight 
as 1 could on my toes. 1 felt and felt the cor- 
ners of my mouth. But my moustache couldn’t 
be made to sprout by feeling for it. There 
wasn’t a single hair! However, as the mous- 
tache was impossible, 1 tried my best in other 
ways to look like the men of the Battalion. 1 
stuck a bit of willow in the muzzle of my gun ; 
and in order to be as grimy as possible 1 dragged 
my feet in the dust. Had 1 dared, 1 would have 
rolled over and over in the road! 

Suddenly 1 realized that it was a long time 
since 1 had seen Vauclair, and 1 wondered 
where he could be. While 1 was hunting for 
him, forcing my way as well as 1 could through 


iHarseillaise.” 


129 


the closely pressed throng, I heard just behind 
me the lively cracking of a whip and the jin- 
gling of bells ; and as 1 turned 1 saw a two-horse 
carriage struggling to get through the crowd. 
It already was so close upon me that 1 could 
feel the horses’ noses sniffling on the back of 
my neck; and in a hurry, with the others, I 
stood aside to let it pass. 

But, Saints above! what did 1 see ? It was 
the carriage of Monsieur le Marquis ! Big Surto, 
in coachman’s dress, was driving; and, still 
stranger, there beside him on the box was my 
father, my poor old father! His face still was 
marked with the weals of the whip-strokes; 
he was bunched together all of a heap, looking 
sick and poor and thin, and so frightened at all 
the crowd of dancing and singing soldiers that 
to see him hurt my heart. But at the sight of 
big Surto’s hard face I trembled all over and 
was dumbfoundered. The carriage rolled softly 
along, and inside 1 saw the Marquise Adelaide, 
pretty Adeline with her gentle eyes, and Mon- 
sieur Robert; and down in one corner, looking 
no bigger than an onion, was Monsieur le Mar- 
quis d’Ambrun. I looked again toward the 
box so as to be certain that it was my father I 
had seen, and my eyes met wicked Surto’s 
wolf’s eyes — which plunged into me like two 


130 


Eebe of tlje iHibi. 


knives and seemed to say: “ I’ve got you this 
time, sure!” 

The carriage passed, and the crowd surged 
together behind it and went on with the faran- 
dole and dance. But I, thunderstruck, did not 
know of what wood to make arrows. 

It was against all sense of right to let my 
father go that way without speaking to him. 
But I knew that if I went to him I was lost: 
big Surto’s eyes had told me that only too 
plainly. And yet — my father! A sob came 
up into my throat! Not knowing what to do, 

I started off again in search of Vauclair. With 
him to back me I feared no one; with him I 
could go to see my old father and be sure that 
Surto would do me no harm. I searched and 
searched; but Vauclair was nowhere to be 
found — and as I stood on tip-toe to see if I 
could catch a glimpse of his red plume over the 
heads of the crowd a heavy hand dropped on 
my shoulder with a nip like a vice. 

I turned — it was Surto ! As soon as he had 
taken the carriage out of the press he had given 
the reins to Monsieur Robert and, bringing my 
simple-hearted father with him, had come after 
me instantly — so that I should not escape him 
again. 1 tried to wriggle out of his clutch, but 
his fingers were iron hooks strong enough to 


®l)e ittarseiiloiae/’ 


131 


break my shoulder. “Come along,” said he. 
“ Come before the Commantant. Your farder 
is going to take you back home.” 

“I won’t go,” 1 cried. “I am free. I’ve 
enlisted as a volunteer! ” and again I tried to 
break away. But Surto dragged me off by 
main force; while my old father limped along 
behind us, muttering: “Yes, yes, you good- 
for-nothing boy, you must come home. Mon- 
sieur le Marquis has said so — and that set- 
tles it.” 

Commandant Moisson was not far off; and 
seeing that there was a disturbance of some 
sort he called out, “ What is the matter ? ” and 
came toward Surto. 

“The matter is that this rascal has been 
playing ^truant; and his old farder here vants 
to make him go home, vere his old mother is 
crying her eyes out because he has run 
avay.” 

The Commandant frowned at me sternly. 
“You little scamp,” said he “is this the way 
young fellows like you treat the old folks now- 
a-days ? Go home, the Nation does not need 
you yet; go home with your father who does 
need you now. Later, when there is a little 
more hair on your chin, you shall enlist with 
us for good and all.” So saying he turned on 


132 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ilTiM. 


his heel without giving me a chance to say a 
word. My father bowed deeply to his disap- 
pearing back, and in another moment big 
Surto was dragging me brutally out of the 
crowd — going at such a pace that my father 
could hardly keep up with us. 

I felt that 1 was lost. Vauclair, who knew 
all my story, could have saved me; but Vau- 
clair had returned to the house to prepare for 
our march to Paris, and was beyond all call. 
If only I had had my gun or my sword! But 
both were stacked up with the arms of the 
Battalion against the ramparts. Alone, un- 
armed, my heart failed me under Surto’s claws ; 
and I let myself be dragged on, more dead than 
alive, while I looked around vainly for Vau- 
claiPs red plume. Soon we were far away 
from the scene of the festival. We pushed 
through the quarters of the Anti-Patriots and 
reached the Rue de la Violette, on which 
was the palace of Monsieur le Marquis d’Am- 
brun. The carriage was there in the middle 
of the court-yard ; where the servants, instead 
of unloading the baggage, were piling things 
into it under the orders of Monsieur Robert and 
Mademoiselle Adeline. When Monsieur Rob- 
ert saw me brought in, dragged along like 
some wild beast, he sneered and said: “Now 


“ QL\)C maxQcmaiQcr 


133 


we’ve got the little villain ! Zou — down with 
him into the vault and let him stay there! ” 

My father stepped forward and as usual 
fell on his knees and kissed that monster’s 
hand. 

When Mademoiselle Adeline heard what 
her brother said she clasped her hands and 
turned her head aside so as not to see me ; and 
1 understood that though she was sorry for me 
she did not dare to speak. 

The end of all now seemed very near to me. 
We came into the hall, in the middle of which 
was an open trap-door showing a dark stair- 
case leading to the cellar; and as Surto dragged 
me down those stairs I heard Monsieur Robert 
saying to my father: “Well, you've seen your 
good-for-nothing scamp of a son. You thought 
he was with Monsieur le Chanoine Jusserand, 
to whom Monsieur le Cure had sent him with 
a letter of recommendation ; but the scorpion 
preferred living with murderers. You saw 
him dressed up in his robber’s clothes! ” 

Down at the end of the cellar was the 
vault. Surto drew the bolts, opened the door, 
and pitched me into the dark hole — saying as 
he did so: “Starf in there! When you get 
hungry, eat one hand — and keep the other for 

breakfast next day ! ” 

11 


134 


0:i)e Eeb 0 of tl)e MXbi. 


Although I felt that I was lost, I tried to 
plead with him; but the beast, twirling me 
around as if to get a chance to kick the bones 
out of me, said stuttering With anger: “You 
little tamn rascal ! 1 know vat a snake’s tongue 

you haf! You haf see too much! Suppose 
you toldt vat you see in the hospital, or vat 
you see unter that pig oak! You understand^ 
hey ? Veil, down there you haf to keep your 
tongue insidt your teeth ! ” 

As 1 went pitching into the darkness he 
slammed fast the door of the vault, and 1 heard 
him shoot the bolt outside. Then 1 heard him 
go up stairs, and I heard the V^p-door fall with 
a bang like a cannon shot. 1 was left alone in 
the blackness, the silence and the chill of death. 

There was no one to rescue me. My own 
father had betrayed and sold me, had consented 
to my death. No, that was impossible. He 
could not in the least have understood the harm 
that he was doing me. He, poor unfortunate 
wretch, with his face all scarred with the marks 
of the Count’s whip, still knelt and kissed the 
Count’s hand. Oh, to think of those scars, 
and not to be able to avenge them! Then 1 
thought and thought over what Surto had said 
about what 1 had seen under the big oak at La 
Garde. But what had 1 ever seen under that 


illareeiUaige.” 


135 


oak that should make him want to shut me up 
there so as to keep my tongue behind my 
teeth ? Suddenly, in a flash, it all came back 
to me and 1 understood. 

One day, long, long before, I had climbed 
to the top of that oak to get at a bird’s nest 
with some beautiful nestlings; and I was in 
the midst of putting the little birds into my 
cap when down under the tree 1 heard voices. 
Spreading myself flat along the branch and 
looking down, I saw big Surto with Madame 
la Marquise. They were holding each other’s 
hands and talking most earnestly. As they 
separated, one to go one way and one the 
other, I heard Surto say: “No fear, we’ll get 
rid of thy little Marquis! I swear I’ll shoot 
him the first day when we are hunting together 
that 1 get the chance;” and the Marquise an- 
swered: “Act quickly, and when the chance 
xomes shoot true! ” These words fairly made 
my flesh creep. I flattened myself still closer 
against my branch and waited until they both, 
as I thought, were out of the way before 1 came 
down. Unluckily 1 didn’t wait long enough. 
Surto, though a good way off, still was in sight ; 
and what was more he happened to look back 
in the instant that 1 was sliding down the trunk 
to the ground. 1 ran like a rabbit into the 


136 


9ri)e Ecbs 0 f tl)e iHibi. 


thick wood, and I thought at the time that he 
did not know who it was; but I was mistaken 
— and I suppose that from that moment he was 
bent upon my death. And so I fairly had played 
into his hands, by giving him a good open ex- 
cuse for killing me, when 1 threw the rock on 
Monsieur Robert’s toes. 

1 was in the midst of these thoughts and 
recollections when 1 heard rats running over 
broken bottles piled up in one corner of the 
vault. Broken glass! Oh, what good luck! 
At least 1 would not have to die of hunger — 1 
could cut open my four veins. 1 groped my 
way toward the corner, and at each step a 
spider’s web brushed across my face; they 
were so thick that the spiders must have been 
left alone there to spin them for years and for 
years. 1 reached the broken bottles, and was 
feeling around among them for a sharp pointed 
bit that would do the work well when 1 heard 
a sound as if the trap was being raised. I held 
my breath; and then 1 clearly heard footsteps 
outside the door of the vault. It doesn’t seem 
reasonable, but 1 who at that very moment 
was trying to find something to kill myself 
with, began to tremble so that my teeth chat- 
tered ; for 1 was sure it was Surto coming back 
to knock me on the head. 1 didn’t mind dying 


iltarseillaise/’ 


137 


so much ; but I did mind dying by that mon- 
ster’s hands — and above all without struggling; 
without making him pay for my death. I 
picked up the first bottle-shard that my hand 
found, and with set teeth faced the door; ready 
to spring on the wretch and bury my teeth in 
his neck and the bit of glass in his side. And 
then the bolt squeaked and the door opened 
wide. 

Oh how dazzled 1 was ! 

With a little lamp in her hand, a blue hood 
on her head, I saw gentle Adeline whose first 
words were: “Hush, Pascalet! where are you? 
I have come to save you.” 

“You, Adeline! Oh have mercy on me. 
Don’t give me up to your game-keeper. He 
will kill me! ” — and 1 fell at her feet. 

“Never, my good little Pascalet. It is just 
the contrary — I have come to save you from that 
wicked man. Follow me and do not speak. 
I will get you away out of this house — and 
may God keep you from ever falling again into 
big Surto’s claws. He is now in the garden, 
digging your grave ; for he has sworn that be- 
fore day dawns he’ll break your neck and bury 
you. Come!”’ 

1 followed her quickly up the stairway, into 
the hall, and then out by a door — so heavy that 


138 ®l)e Hcbs of ll)e illibi. 


we both together had to pull to open it — into 
the chicken-yard. Once there, Adeline said 
to me: “ Get over that wall and you are in the 
street.” Mademoiselle Adeline actually tried 
to drag out for me the chicken-house ladder. 
Her utmost efforts could not stir it from its 
place — and while she was tugging away at it 
with her delicate little hands 1, active as a 
marten, was on top of the wall. And then — 1 
am ashamed to tell it — 1, rough and coarse as 
barley-bread, had never a word of thanks for 
her, but just dropped down into the street and 
tore off as fast as 1 could toward the Place du 
Grand Paradis. 

At that time of night Avignon was as silent 
and as lonely as a graveyard. The full moon 
was pouring bucketsful of light on one side of 
the narrow street, and casting on the other side 
a black shadow so thick that hidden in it you 
couldn’t tell a horse from a man. Buried in 
the shadow, 1 ran onward — taking care to keep 
clear of the Papalist quarter — and not until 1 
came near the end of the Rue des Encans did 
I hear a sound. Then, as I turned the corner 
into the Rue Sainte Catherine, 1 heard coming 
toward me the trampling of feet. 

“Heavens!” 1 thought, “maybe it’s the 
Papalist patrol!” — and 1 hid myself in a deep 


“ ®l)e ittarseillaise/’ 


139 


doorway where the shadow was as thick as 
a fog. 

The sounds came nearer and nearer, while 
I stood there trembling; and at last — it seemed 
to me a long while — the group came abreast 
of me and then safely passed me by. But 
though they did not see me in the shadow, 1 
saw them clearly in the bright moonlight. At 
the head walked a big thick woman, striding 
along like a man and carrying in one hand a 
long knife and in the other a bag. Behind her 
:ame three masked men, carrying between 
them another man bound and gagged — a poor 
wretch who from time to time kicked and 
struggled and tried vainly to get free; and each 
time that he fell to wriggling and plunging, 
and the little procession halted until his bearers 
could hold him fast again, the woman turned 
around and cried in a harsh voice: “That’s 
right, kick away ! Kick as much as you please ! 
You can’t get loose — and I’m going to rip 
your bowels out before we throw you into the 
Rhone!” 

It was La Jacarasse, the tripe-woman, who 
was taunting the helpless man with these 
blood-curdling words; and I could hear her 
keeping on in the same fashion until she and 
the masks and their prisoner disappeared 


140 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


around the next turn. They went on into the 
Rue de la Banasterie, toward the Porte de la 
Ligne — and as soon as they were out of sight 
I took to my heels again and in another minute 
I was at our own door. Jacquemart was 
pounding midnight on his bell, and yet there 
still was a light in the window of our room. I 
knocked and called as loudly as I dared: La- 
zuli! Lazuli! Itisl!” 

“ Can it be Pascalet ? Yes, it is his voice! ” 
I heard Lazuli cry, and then 1 heard her hurry- 
ing down the stairs as if on wings. 

The key turned and the door flew open. 
As soon as Lazuli saw me she caught me close 
in her arms and kissed me a dozen times. 
“ Where have you been ? What has happened 
to you ?” she exclaimed. “ 1 don’t know how 
many patrols I’ve sent hunting for you all 
through Avignon.” And as we went up the 
stairs together to our room she continued: 

Vauclair left with the Battalion. He told me 
that as soon as you got back 1 was to send you 
after him on the road to Paris. Oh Pascalet, 
my pretty boy, 1 began to fear you were lost! ” 
— and then she threw her arms around me and 
kissed me again and again. 

I was greatly surprised and confused and 
delighted. 1 hardly could tell whether I was 


illatseillaisc/' 


141 


asleep or awake. I knew nothing of caresses; 
and these, the first I ever had felt, seemed 
strangely sweet to me. Lazuli’s hearty kisses 
as she pressed my face against her warm bosom 
moved me curiously. Not to be rude, as I had 
been to Mademoiselle Adeline, 1 gave back kiss 
for kiss and hug for hug and felt I never could 
weary of so giving and taking. Often had 
I spent hours gazing at her, thinking how 
pretty she was and how everything she did 
was well done. Sometimes as she passed near 
me I had ventured to touch her skirt; and the 
touch had sent a thrill through all my veins. 
Lazuli’s voice was honey-sweet, and when she 
looked on me with her lovely kind eyes her 
glance seemed a caress in itself. Innocent as 
a new-born babe in all such 'love matters, I 
didn’t understand what 1 felt.' Probably La- 
zuli had some notion of it. At any rate, she 
soon stopped petting me, pushed me away, 
and returned to her usual cheerful well-bal- 
anced self as she said: “You must be hungry, 
Pascalet. Take some bread and wine and tell 
me all that has happened to you.” She poured 
me a glass of cordial and continued: “You 
must be off in a hurry so as to catch up with 
the Battalion at La Verdette, where they camp 
for the night. You know where that is, about 


142 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


half a league from Avignon ? The Battalion 
starts from there at daylight for Paris.” 

While I sopped my bread in my wine 1 
told her step by step all my misfortunes, and 
also how I had met La Jacarasse and the three 
men carrying another man to the Rhone. 
When Lazuli heard this she threw her arms up 
over her head, and exclaimed: “ It isn’t possi- 
ble! Where are we.? Is everybody a mur- 
derer ? I am not going to stay here alone with 
my baby. I am afraid of your Surto. I am 
afraid of La Jacarasse. Start now. Leave here 
at once. Take your gun and your sword and 
join the Battalion. Tell Vauclair I can not stay 
here alone. Tell him I shall start for Paris 
next week by the coach. I shall pass you on 
the road and will wait for you in Paris. 1 will 
get ready there a little home for you both; and 
I will be there with you should anything go 
wrong. 1 too am a Patriot. I want my share 
of all your troubles. 

“ Here is your bundle. See, Pascalet, what 
I have put in it for you. Here is a nice un- 
bleached linen shirt; here is your gourd, full of 
good brandy ; here is a handsome red taiolo to 
fasten round your waist; here are two pistols, 
with powder and ball and fresh flints; and here 
is your tricolour cockade. Here too, don’t for- 


“QTlje iHarscillaise/' 


143 


get, are the three crowns given you by Mon- 
sieur Randoulet. You may need them. It is 
a long road to Paris, and the times are bad. 
They say all the people up there are Aristocrats 
— perhaps you will not get even drinking- 
water for nothing! Well, it is time to start. 
Come and kiss little Clairet — but come quietly, 
for he is fast asleep. And then be off as 
quickly as you can, and tell all I have said to 
Vauclair.” 

Lazuli took me by the hand and led me in 
softly to kiss*Iittle Clairet. Then she put my 
bundle on my back, fastening it on firmly with 
two bands which crossed over my chest, and 
we went down stairs. I went first, and what 
with sword and gun and bundle I was laden 
like a bee. Lazuli came behind, lamp in hand, 
saying over and over: “Yes, I start next week 
— we will all meet very soon. Say so to Vau- 
clair.’' 

My heart got up into my mouth and choked 
me so that I couldn’t answer her a word. I 
stopped on the threshold — and before I could 
turn around the door was shut behind me and 
bolted fast. And there I was, all alone at night 
on the Place du Grand Paradis, my sword by 
my side, my gun on my shoulder — starting on 
foot for Paris, the Capital of France! 


144 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iflibi. 


“And now,” said Pascal, interrupting him- 
self, “I think it is about time that the little 
man there and the rest of us should go and see 
the blind procession go by. Good-night.” 

As we went out Lou Materoun said: “ But 
to-morrow you’ll tell us what happened up 
there in Paris, won’t you, Pascal.^ You’re not 
going to leave us this way, all high and dry ? ” 

“Yes, yes. I’ll tell you all about it to-mor- 
row,” answered Pascal — already a good way 
off. Lou Materoun went toward the upper 
part of the village while we went toward the 
lower, each one taking the road to his home. 
Sheltered under my grandfather’s cloak, my eyes 
shut up with sleepiness, I clutched his breeches 
and so let him lead me to the door of our 
house. And while he held up his lantern and 
fumbled with the key I still heard, there under 
the cloak, the steady beat of Lou Materoun’s 
hob-nailed shoes as he went upward through 
the darkness to the high end of the village 
street. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE MARCH OF THE MARSEILLES BATTALION. 

While we were at supper the next even- 
ing my father said: “My olives are to be 
ground to-night and I must go to the oil-mill 
to see after them. The first pressing will be 
sent home about ten o’clock, and as 1 can’t be 
in two places at once somebody must be here 
to put it in the jars.” 

“Very well,” said my grandfather, “I will 
stay at home and attend to it.” 

“ Won’t we go to the shoemaker’s then ?” 
I cried all of a tremble. “Why, it’s to-night 
that Pascal tells of the march to Paris! ” 

My father frowned as he said: “ 1 don’t see 
why I should be kept from looking after my 
olives by a blind grandmother’s story like this 
stuff of old Pascal’s.” 

But my mother understood perfectly how I 
felt — how cruelly disappointed 1 was. 1 do be- 
lieve that she used to feel in her own body all that 
I felt in mine. Never had a boy so good and 

145 


146 


3[l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


kind a mother. ‘ ‘ There now, ” said she. ‘ ‘ Go 
to your story-telling. I will stay up and at- 
tend to the oil.” 

A minute later my grandfather had lighted 
his lantern and we were off together; and in 
less time than it takes to go from the sink to 
the wood-pile we found ourselves at the shoe- 
maker’s. As it turned out it was well that we 
had hurried. The meeting already was in full 
session, and the neighbours had no more than 
made room on the bench for my grandfather 
when old Pascal opened his mouth and began. 

I did not loiter on the road. I followed the 
tow-path along the Rhone, taking a short cut 
whenever 1 could find one. The stars were 
shining. The red moon, looking as big as the 
setting sun, just touched the Rock of Justice. 
The Rhone went rippling along with a little 
noise like that of the sun-wind in the white 
poplars. The nightingales were trilling to each 
other across the river. On the meadows were 
tiny points of light where the glow-worms 
were lying in the grass. Suddenly the sound 
of girls’ voices and of young mens’ laughter 
startled me; and 1 knew that hidden by the 
bushes close by was a threshing-floor, and 
that the young people of the farmhouse to 


iltarcl) of tl)c illarseilles Battalion. 147 


which it belonged were seated on the straw- 
heaps and were merry-making out of doors in 
the sweet freshness of the night. 

But nothing could stay me. On I ran, keep- 
ing my eyes steadily fixed on the evergreen- 
oaks of La Verdette which 1 could make out 
faintly in the distance. And as 1 ran 1 kept 
saying to myself : ‘ ‘ Hurry ! Hurry ! The Bat- 
talion may start without you! ” I felt that no 
joy could be so sweet as that of being once 
more with the men of Marseilles, of seeing 
again Vauclair, of feeling myself again one of 
the patriot Reds of the Midi on the march to 
Paris to drive out our traitor King. 

At last I came to the edge of the wood, and 
as I was looking for a place to jump the ditch 
that ran beside the road a voice cried sharply 
out of the darkness: “Halt! Who goes 
there.?” 

“Friend of Liberty,” I answered, giving 
the countersign. 

“ But who are you .?” 

“lam Pascalet. A volunteer from Avi- 
gnon.” 

“ Why, if s our kid ! Vive la Nation ! Tip 
us your five sardines, Pascalet. We thought 
you were done for.” And the sentry shook 
hands so hard that 1 thought my five sar- 


148 


QL[)c Heirs of tl)e illibi. 


dines, as he called them, were done for any 
way. 

The sentry’s challenge, and his shout of joy 
when he found that I had got back safe again, 
started the rest of the men from their resting 
places beneath the trees. The Commandant 
Moisson, Captain Gamier, my good Vauclair — 
half the command came crowding around me. 
As for Vauclair, he was so delighted that he 
picked me right off my feet and hugged me 
like a bear; and we couldn’t speak, either of 
us — we were fairly crying! 

“If you hadn’t turned up, Pascalet,” said 
the Commandant, “I believe I would have 
marched the Battalion back to look for you. J1 
felt something here in my heart that told me it 
was all wrong to let that dirty German carry 
you off.” 

“WeH, it’s all right now,” said Vauclair as 
he loosened his bear-hug and set me on my 
feet again. “We won’t talk about it. Tell 
me, how did you find your way here ? Did 
you see Lazuli ? ” 

“Did I see her.? I should say I did! It 
was she who gave me my things and started 
me after you. 1 told her everything that had 
happened, and she was all worked up about 
it.” 


ittarcl) of tl)e ittareeilles Battalion. 149 


Here the Commandant ordered the drums 
to beat the assembly. “Hurry, lads,” he 
called. “We rhust be off. It will be day- 
break soon.” 

Vauclair kept muttering: “I don’t wonder 
she was worked up. It doesn’t seem possible 
such things could be! It doesn’t seem pos- 
sible!” And as we fell in he asked: “And 
what did she say to you ? ” 

“She said she wouldn’t stay where there 
were such goings on. That she and little 
Clairet would take the Paris coach next week 
and pass us on the road. She says she wants 
to have a hand in the row up there herself.” 

“I’m glad she’s coming,” Vauclair an- 
swered. “What you tell me takes a load off 
my mind. I should have wearied for her up 
there alone. But aren’t you tired, Pascalet ? 
You haven’t had a wink of sleep — and you 
know we are to make one stretch of it from 
here to Orange, at least six leagues. ” 

“Sleepy.^ Tired.? Not a bit of it! And 
what do we want to stop in Orange for.?” 
Booby that I was, I thought that Paris was just 
on the other side of the mountains and that we 
could get there in a single march ! 

While we talked, the Battalion was form- 
ing in line on the road. “Forward, march!” 

13 


(Sl)e Eebs of tl}e iHibi. 


150 


cried the Commandant. The drums beat the 
quick-step ; all the men together burst out with 
“Allons enfants de la Patrie!” — and we were 
off. I stepped out with my longest stride — 
trying to walk with the step of a big man — 
and 1 sung away at the top of my voice. I 
felt as if 1 were borne away on wings. My 
voice rang out so loud that I heard nothing 
else. It seemed to me that my singing could 
be heard in Avignon, in Marseilles, away even 
in my own home among the mountains at 
Malemort; and as if the whole round earth 
must hear the rattle of our drums, the thunder- 
like rumbling of our cannon, and our tre- 
mendous cry: ‘ Aux armes, citoyens! Aux 
armes! ” 

I had taken my place at the head of the 
Battalion, close behind the drums, alongside of 
the tall Federal who had carried the banner of 
The Rights of Man through the streets of Avi- 
gnon. He was a good-natured, jolly fellow; 
a Marseillais named Samat. .Every now and 
then he would turn to me and say: “Good 
for you, kid! Good for you!” To which I 
would answer — wanting to please him by 
speaking with the Marseilles accent: “Vivo la 
Nacien!” and then 1 would go on roaring 
“ Allons enfants de la Patrie! ” 


iHarcl) of tl)e ilXaraeillcB Battalion. 15 1 


Day was just dawning as we marched 
through the village of Sorgues. The men in 
their shirts, the women in their shifts with hair 
loose over their shoulders, crowded to the win- 
dows to see us pass. The young men and the 
girls applauded us; the girls even blowing 
kisses to us, ’while the men shouted: “Death 
to the tyrant! Vive les Marseillais!" But the 
stiff-necked ones, the old women, the people 
behind the age, crossed themselves, spit at us, 
and banged-to their shutters. The village was 
so small that we were soon through it and out 
in the open country again. 

The sun was rising behind Mont Ventour, 
and the birds were flying out from the trees 
and bushes. Already men were at work at 
the threshing-floors unbinding the sheaves and 
spreading them out and hammering them with 
the hard-hitting flails. Close beside the thresh- 
ers the great winnowing-sieves, hung between 
their three poles, swayed backwards and for- 
wards winnowing the grain from the chaff. 
The yellow grain rained straight down, form- 
ing even, pointed heaps; while the floating 
chaff, looking like gold-dust, was carried away 
by the light wind and sprinkled in little gold 
dots over the grass. From the grain that leaped 
from the husks with each flail-stroke, and from 


152 


(^l)e Ecbs of tl)e iHibi. 


the beaten straw, there blew over on the soft 
wind clear to the road where we were marching 
with our cannon behind us a delicious smell 
that fairly made our mouths water — it was so 
like the smell of good golden-crusted bread 
fresh out of the oven. Farther away, off in the 
stubble-fields, we could see men gathering the 
heaps of sheaves into wagons — so piled up that 
they looked like little thatched houses. Stick- 
ing out beyond the shelvings the big ends of 
the sheaves almost touched the ground; and 
the load, held fast by the double rope, curved 
out so far over the back of the shaft-horse that he 
looked like ahorse half buried in a stack of straw. 

As the sun got higher and the day got hotter 
the cigales began to sing; and all around us 
new ones were coming out of the ground and 
getting off their chrysalis overcoats and then — 
when the good sun had given them fresh life — 
flying off with their harsh buzzing cry into the 
hot air. The little creatures came and perched 
on our bayonets and gun-barrels; and as we 
roared out the “Marseillaise” to our steady 
drum-rattle, they scraped out their buzzing 
song. So to buzz of cigale and buzz of drum 
we marched under the blazing sun, kicking up 
the dust of twenty flocks of sheep and making 
our throats as dry as lime-kilns. 


iHarcl) of tlie iHaroeiiies Battalion. 153 


In spite of heat and dust, in spite of thirst 
and weariness, no one complained as we 
tramped steadily on : one body and one soul 
with one will and one aim — and that to make 
the traitor King, and those Parisians who were 
traitors with him, cry mercy. 

At midday we reached Orange, where the 
whole town headed by the Consul came to 
meet us. I can tell you I was a proud boy as 
I entered that town ! From my shoes to my 
eyebrows I was white with dust. My red cap 
was cocked over one ear. I kept my eyes 
glaringly wide open, so as to look fierce and 
dangerous. I howled the “Marseillaise’’ at 
the top of my voice as I marched in the van of 
the Battalion — and I was sure that no one saw 
or heard anybody but me! 

Samat, at the head of the column, flourished 
his banner of The Rights of Man; and when 
he saw any one who looked sulky, or who did 
not applaud, that unpatriotic person had to 
kiss The Rights of Man in a hurry ! 

At the Hotel de Ville the Consul welcomed 
us formally in a speech in French which we 
couldn’t make anything out of. He talked and 
he talked and he talked, without once stop- 
ping. And at last — as it seemed as if he never 
would finish— Margan, a long thin pockmarked 


154 


QL\)c Eebs of tl)e MiM. 


fellow, called out: “Hold up there, Monsieur 
le Consul. Hearing your gab gives me the 
pip. Vivo la Nacien — with a jug of wine! ” 

Every one laughed and applauded; and the 
Consul, quite understanding the matter, ended 
his speech by saying: “Friends, I see what 
you need is to be well filled up. You are to 
camp on the Place de I’Arc de Triomphe; and 
there you’ll find all the good wine and good 
barley bread that you can hold. Vive la Na- 
tion!” 

We found it all as the Consul had promised, 
and after we had gulped our claret and 
munched our good barley bread seasoned with 
a clove of garlic rubbed on it, we went to take 
an afternoon nap in a near-by shady field. 
Some lay down on their sides, some on 
their backs, but the greatest number lay face 
down so as not to be bothered by the flies. 
Unbuttoning my coat and unlacing my shoes, 
I lay down beside Vauclair, gun in hand — for 
1 had sworn, since my capture of the day be- 
fore, that never would I let that gun go again 
— and with my bundle for a pillow I soon 
floated off in dreams. I saw myself once more 
at the Porte de la Ligne in the midst of the fes- 
tivities, again 1 heard the jingle of bells and 
the cracking of a whip, again 1 felt the breath 


illartl) of tl)e iflarseilks Battalion. 155 


of the horses on my neck. And then — oh hor- 
ror! — again a hand caught my shoulder in a 
grip like a vice! Frightened, panting, 1 awoke 
screaming: “Vauclair! Help! Help!” And 
as 1 jumped to my feet — this is the wonderful 
part of it — I really saw on the highway, close 
by me, the Marquis of Ambrun’s carriage dash- 
ing along at full gallop with its three horses har- 
nessed en arbalete — two horses abreast and the 
third in front — and there was Surto up on the 
box outside. 

“What’s the row? What’s the matter 
with you ?” cried Vauclair, jumping to his feet 
beside me. 

“ Look! Look! ” I cried. “ It is the Mar- 
quis d’Ambrun and Surto! There, up the 
road, in that carriage! ” 

“Oh,” said Vauclair, regretfully, “if only 
we had seen them coming! ” 

My scream had waked up most of the men. 
The Commandant came up, and Vauclair told 
him all about my kidnapping of the day before 
and pointed out to him the little black speck 
far up the road wrapped in a cloud of dust; 
and then added that in that carriage were the 
very Aristos who had tried to kill me. 

“It’s a good thing for them and a bad thing 
for us that we didn’t see them sooner,” said 


9El)e Uebe of tl)e ittibi. 


156 


the Commandant. “We’d have settled the 
score for the boy, here — and three fine horses 
are just what we need to drag our cannon to 
Paris.” 

But there was nothing more to be done 
about it. A little later Captain Gamier ordered 
the drums to beat the assembly, and we all fell 
in; and then — with the people of Orange 
crowding around us cheering, and with all the 
Battalion roaring out “Tremblez, tyrans! ” and 
the rest of it — away we went up the Paris 
road. 

The sun was setting behind the white pop- 
lars bordering the lagoons of the Rhone as we 
passed through Mornas. To our wonder the 
town was dead deserted. The rattle of our 
drums, our singing of the “ Marseillaise,” the 
rumble of our cannon, shook the whole town 
— but the doors and windows staid fast barred 
and the only living things we saw were some 
fluttering and squawking hens. 

“Here’s a pretty state of things!” said 
Samat; who felt quite shame-facpd at having 
unfurled his banner of The Rights of Man in a 
place where there was no one who could be 
kicked into kissing it on his knees. 

“ What in the name of all thunders is every- 
body doing in this town of nobody ? ” shouted 


illarcl) of tl)c illarseiUes Battalion. 157 


Margan, at the same time banging with his 
gunstock against windows and doors. But 
his banging did no good. We went clear 
through the village without seeing the face of 
man. 

At the end of the town we came upon more 
squawking chickens; and Samat said, with 
a good deal of meaning in his tone: “Well, at 
any rate there are plenty of chickens in this 
country!” He left the ranks and went back, 
and so did twenty or thirty more of our men ; 
and when they joined us again every one 
of them had a cock or a pullet spitted on 
his bayonet — where they kept on gurgling 
and sighing for two or three hours, as we 
went marching onward through the black 
night. 

Oh how long was that night and how 
weary that road 1 The darkness grew blacker 
and blacker. We were too tired to talk. Even 
Margan, who was a born chatterbox, held his 
tongue. The only sounds we heard were the 
rattling of the forge-irons and the rumbling of 
the cannon on the road, and the chirping of 
crickets and croaking of frogs off in the dark- 
ness near us in the fields. Drowsily we 
plodded on. 

Suddenly, far ahead of us we saw a light 


®l)e Ecba 0f t\)c iHibi. 


158 


that seemed to be in the road and that tossed 
about and went from side to side. 

“What’s that.?” called out one of our 
drummers, who led the way. No one could 
tell, and every one made his guess as to what 
it was. One thought it the mail-coach, an- 
other a carriage, another a Jack-o’-lantern. 
But what it actually turned out to be was a 
man with a lantern running toward us, with 
open arms as if he would bar our way, while 
he shouted: “Mercy! Mercy! We are all 
good Patriots. Have pity on us. Do not hurt 
us. We are poor, but we will give you all 
we have. 1 can offer no more! ” 

“But, my good man, who are you; and 
what makes you think we want to hurt you .? ” 
asked Samat, sticking the man’s own lantern 
under his nose so as to see what he looked 
like. 

“1 am the Consul of Pierrelatte. Don’t 
hurt me, and 1 will turn over everything to 
you. Before they ran away my Pierrelatte 
people said to me: * Let them eat and drink all 
there is to eat and drink. Let them eat and 
drink it all!’ Now what more would you 
have ? 1 implore you not to burn or pull down 
or ruin the property of these my poor peo- 
ple!” 


iHarcIi of tl)e iflarseiUco Battalion. 159 


“You great old owl, you!” cried Margan, 
bursting into a laugh at seeing the Consul 
trembling on his little cock’s legs that shook 
like castanets. “What do you take ils for — 
for murderers, for highway robbers ? Come, 
come, you must tell your Pierrelatte people 
that we are good Patriots, and that all we want 
is enough wine to keep us going from here to 
Montelimar.” 

“Well, that don’t seem much to ask,” said 
the Consul. And then he went on: “Ah, my 
dear sir, no sooner had the carriage driven 
away than all my Pierrelatte people fled into 
the islands of the Rhone — leaving me, their 
Consul, all alone to try to make you hear 
reason.” 

“What carriage.^” asked Vauclair. 

“A carriage that passed here at nightfall. 
It stopped but a moment in the Place de la 
Commune, and the coachman without getting 
down from, his seat called out: ‘Good people, 
hide yourselves! The Marseilles robbers are 
coming! To-morrow you all will be dead and 
your houses all pillaged and burned!’ And 
then he whipped up his horses and galloped 
off as if he had the devil at his heels.” 

“ We know who that man was! Eh, Com- 
mandant?” said Vauclair turning to Com- 


i6o 


®l]e Eebs of tl)e iUibi. 


mandant Moisson. “ We’ll catch up with him 
at Paris — with him and his Marquis too! ” 

Margan, who was getting impatient, broke 
in with: “All right, all right, citizen Consul. 
As you have a lantern, go ahead and show us 
the door of the best cellar in the village. That 
is all we ask.” 

“Come along, you good people,” said the 
old Consul, now quite easy about us. “Fol- 
low me.” And away he went, stumping 
along in front of the Battalion while he rambled 
on CO us: “Oh, if only they had known this, 
my people would not have hidden themselves, 
every one of them, in the Rhone islands. 
They took their goats, their mules, their asses; 
they even carried their rabbits with them. 
They took away everything they possibly 
could take. If you could have seen them run- 
ning away — the women shrieking and scream- 
ing, the -children crying, the men swearing! 
And so away they all went to the islands. 

“Had they known that a couple of barrels 
of wine was all you wanted! Well, well, 
well — all gone except me, the Consul. 1 said 
to myself: ‘ Either you are the Consul or you 
are not. If your head is cut off, it will be cut 
off— but you will not do your duty as a Consul 
unless you stay! ’ ” 


illarcl) of tl)e MaxBciiks Battalion. i6i 


“What are you chattering about, old fel- 
low ? ” said Margan. “ Are we near that cellar- 
door yet ? ” 

“Not two steps farther,” said the Consul. 
“ Here we are,” and, so saying, he stopped in 
the main street of the village before a locked 
and barred door. “Here is the best stocked 
cellar in Pierrelatte, ” he went on, holding up 
his lantern so as to see the lock. “But they 
certainly have carried off the key.” 

“All right, all right,” said Margan, stepping 
forward. “Don’t work up your bile, citizen 
Consul, we have keys here to open all locks,” 
and he called: “Hallo, there, oh Peloux! 
Bring up the forge-truck and show what good 
locksmiths we are. Show how long it will 
take us to open the doors of the King’s Castle 
up there in Paris! ” 

Peloux, who was the armorer of the Bat- 
talion, came forward with his men, dragging 
the forge-truck. In the glint of an eye they 
turned the tail of the truck toward the big 
door; six men took hold and drew it to the 
other side of the street so as to have a good 
start: “Oh, isso! Now then, all together!” 
they cried — and the ready-made battering ram 
whacked against the door, and burst it open 
with a bang! Like a swarm of eager wine- 


i 62 


QL[)c Hebe of tl)e Mibi. 


flies we rushed through the opening, and in no 
time had the bung out of the biggest barrel 
and its vent started. Out spouted the wine in a 
red curve,- glinting in the light of the lantern 
like a rainbow of rubies and filling the whole 
place with its rich smell. As the big jugs were 
filled each man clutched one, and either glued 
his lips to it and sucked away or held it high 
up and let the wine pour directly down into 
his thirsty throat. Some even stooped and 
drank directly from the barrel. Round went 
the Jugs — once, twice, thrice. Oh how we 
gulped and guzzled ! Each man as he had his 
fill went off and lay down upon the straw on 
the threshing-floors at the entrance of the vil- 
lage; and I, when the hens began to have two 
heads, did as the rest and went to lie down, 
too. The dawn had just begun to whiten the 
sky so that the white moon looked like a cym- 
bal nailed up there. But some of the men 
stayed on buzzing around the cask, kissing the 
vent until the wine no longer spirted out in a 
clear rainbow but dribbled out thick and heavy 
off the lees. 

But in spite of our night’s march, and our 
guzzling on top of it, we made an early start. 
No sooner did the red sunlight touch the top 
of Mont Ventour, so that it was like a lovely 


iHarcl) of tl)c iltaraeilleo Battalion. 163 


rose on the highest branch of a rose bush, than 
the Commandant — who, with our officers, had 
stood watch while the drinking was going on 
— ordered the drums to beat the assembly and 
we fell into line. 

The Commandant, with drawn sword, took 
his position in front of the Battalion and said to 
us: “I know that you are good Patriots. I 
know that you will do your duty unto the end, 
unto death. Friends, the Country is in danger. 
France may perish. The King has betrayed 
us and has made a pact with strange peoples 
to destroy the Nation. It is our duty to save 
what he seeks to destroy. With our hearts 
full of rage against the tyrant, and our souls 
full of love for the Country, we will stride on 
together to Paris and show what the Reds of 
the Midi can do! ” And to this speech we all, 
in one formidable shout, answered: “Vivo la 
Nacien! ” 

Then the Commandant turned toward the 
Consul of Pierrelatte, who had stuck to him 
all night long, and said: “Citizen Consul, tell 
your Pierrelatte people that we of the Marseilles 
Battalion are, as they are, children of the plough 
and of the workshop; that we have faith in 
liberty and in justice, and that we go to Paris 
to overthrow the tyrant. And tell them, too, 


164 


®l)e licba of tl)e iUibi. 


that we are neither murderers nor robbers, and 
that we pay our debts.” So saying, he drew 
out an assignat from his pocket and gave it to 
the Consul, adding: “Here is an order on the 
Treasury to pay for the wine we have drunk 
and the damage we have done.” 

The poor Consul could not believe his eyes. 
Greatly moved, he took off his cocked-hat; 
and his emotion going to his thin cock’s legs 
they more than ever shook like castanets. So 
we left him. The drums struck up the march, 
and singing the “Marseillaise” we again 
started on the road to Paris. 

This time, leaving big Samat and chatter- 
ing Margan, 1 stationed myself in the rear, 
with the cannon, and the forge, beside Ser- 
geant Peloux — from whom I had a favour to 
ask. A tremendous longing to help pull the 
guns had taken hold of me : for 1 thought that if 
only I could be harnessed up with the others in 
that hard work I would not seem so young. I 
fancied to myself how 1 would look as we 
passed through the towns and villages — bend- 
ing over and tugging at the straps, red as fire 
and dripping with sweat, my eyes very wide 
open and rolling ferociously, sparks flying from 
the stones beneath my hob-nailed shoes, and 
all the while shouting in a voice as deep and 


Marcl) of tbe ittarseillea Battalion. 165 


as hoarse as I could make it: “Vivo la Na- 
cien ! ” I fancied how the women and girls 
and children would stare at me; and how I 
would look to them just as the men of the Bat- 
talion had looked to me when they came in 
to Avignon. 

But at the very first word that 1 ventured 
to say about this to Sergeant Peloux he set me 
down hard. “Your turn will come in good 
time, little man,” said the Sergeant. “We 
haven’t got to Paris yet; and before we get 
there you’ll have your gaiter’s full of toting 
your bundle and your gun and that sword that 
is a good deal longer than you are! ” 

I didn’t dare to make any answer when 1 
got this set-back, and I felt myself turning red 
with shame. Luckily for the hiding of my 
confusion, a frightened hen just then fluttered 
into the ranks and every one tried to spit her 
on sword or bayonet. Flying and running and 
squawking as if her head was being cut off, 
the hen came down the line, and as she passed 
me 1 spitted her at the first lunge. 

Proud as a prince, 1 stepped out so as to 
gain the head of the column and show off my 
hen; and as 1 passed up the line I heard the 
Federals saying: “Look there, the kid has 
her!” But Vauclair turned around frowning; 

13 


i66 


®l)e Eeir0 of tl)e iHibi. 


and as I came up to him he said: ‘‘Whose 
hen is that ? ” 

“ It’s mine.” 

“ Have you paid for it ? ” 

“No, indeed! ” 

“Then you have stolen it. Go to your 
place. Don’t let this ever happen again.” 

I never had seen Vauclair so hard; and as 
he spoke I felt a sudden pang in my heart — it 
was the first time that 1 ever had given him 
pain. But I felt that he was right to blame 
me. I had stolen that hen, and perhaps from 
some poor man. I wanted to unspit her and 
fling her behind the hedge, but I did not dare 
to. Yet 1 longed to get rid of her. She was a 
weight on me and made me bitterly ashamed. 

I had kept on walking very fast and so had 
reached the head of the Battalion. In order to 
make tall Samat and chattering Margan turn 
around, and also in order to hide my con- 
fusion, I began to sing “Allons enfants de la 
Patrie 1 ” 

“Hullo! is that you.^” said Samat. 
“Look, Margan, look there — what a splendid 
big hen ! Where did you pick her up, kid } 
What geese we were not to have caught her 
ourselves! ” 

“ Do take her, if you like her,” said I; and 


ilTarcl) of tl)e iUarseiUes Bottalion. 167 


without any more words I took down my hen 
and stuck her on his bayonet. 

“He’s no goose, anyway, that kid; he 
wants to make me carry her! No matter, 
youngster, you shall have a bit of her.” And 
on he marched, roaring out: “Allons enfants 
de la Patrie ! ” 

When 1 had got rid of my hen it seemed as 
if a tremendous load had fallen from my back. 
Vauclair couldn’t reproach me any longer, and 
all things pleased me again ; the road was gay, 
the sun delighted me. While the men heavily 
tramped along — dripping with sweat, suffo- 
cated by the white dust, and deafened by the 
shrill voice of the cigales — I, light as air, went 
and came the whole length of the Battalioh as 
the sheep dog does with his flock. 1 jumped 
up on the banks by the road side and gathered 
big blackberries with which I stuffed myself 
and my pockets. 

Suddenly the drums beat the quick-step. 
Samat unfurled his banner, and we steadied 
our lines. We were entering the town of 
Montelimar. The streets and open places were 
crowded with people, and more people filled 
the windows and doorways. We marched on 
until we came in front of the Patriot’s Club, 
over which the red flag was floating; and then, 


i68 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


after a short halt, we went to encamp outside of 
the town beside a river that they told us was 
the jabron. Here we made ourselves com- 
fortable — roasting the Mornas chickens and 
eating them with good fresh bread ; and then, 
having loosened the knee-buckles of our 
breeches and taken off our shoes, we spread 
ourselves out on the grass. Even for those of 
us who kept awake it was a delicious rest to 
go down on one’s elbows and stretch out at 
full length on the soft grass in the shade of the 
poplars and willows which grew beside the 
stream. 

1 lay that way — half awake, half dreaming, 
turning over in my mind for a while the cruel 
and bitter life 1 had passed at La Garde; and 
then forgetting it all as 1 sleepily watched a 
white cloud up in the sky that got bigger and 
bigger and then slowly got little again, and at 
last went quite away. Then 1 let my head fall 
between my hands and watched with great in- 
terest an ant who was carrying through the grass 
a crumb of bread bigger than himself. The little 
creature would get caught in a thick tangle of 
grass-blades, or would slip down from a tall 
stem ; but off he would start again, sometimes 
pushing and sometimes pulling at his load. In 
pity for him, I now and then would take a 


iHarcl) of tl)e iflarseiUcs Battalion. 169 


twig and help him on his way; putting the 
twig under him very gently, so as not to hurt 
him, and so lifting him over a hard pass that 
would have cost him an hour of climbing to 
get over alone. And so the afternoon wore 
away. 

At sunset the brave Patriots of Montelimar 
brought each of us to eat with our bread a 
plaited rope of garlic, for that is the food to 
give strength and courage to warriors; and 
then the drums beat, and once more we started 
on the road to Paris. 

We marched all night ; a warm clear summer 
night with now and then a flash of heat light- 
ning low down in the sky. As dawn came on 
we were wrapped in a cool mist that rose from 
the Rhone and spread out over the osiers and 
the fields and the flowering hedges by the road 
side; but the sun soon rose and drank it up. 
It seemed strange to us to find men reaping. 
In Avignon half the grain already was in the 
granaries; at Pierrelatte they were putting it 
into sheaves ; and here they were only harvest- 
ing ! But we were coming to the frontiers of the 
North. Now that we had passed Montelimar 
there were no more olive-trees; and the mari- 
nade, the soft sea-wind off the Mediterranean, 
was far away. Here, where the olive could 


0^l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


170 


not flourish, were no more cigales — the ground 
was too cold to bring them forth. When I saw 
cherry-trees which w’ere only just losing their 
blossoms 1 could not help saying: “How far 
off we are! ” 

Margan laughed when he heard me, and 
broke out in his chattering way: “Yes, we’ve 
come a good way, but we’re not nearly there 
yet. Go ahead all, and the devil take the 
hindermost! Go ahead! It’s not in fifteen 
days, nor yet in twenty days, that we’ll be 
beating the moths out of the King’s council- 
lors. And, I say, boys, won’t that make a gay 
stir-about? To-morrow we’ll be in Valence. 
But we won’t stop there. Didn’t the Com- 
mandant say that the country's in danger ? We 
won’t stop till we haven’t any breath left! 
And now, once more: ‘Aux armes, cito- 
yens! ’ ” And as we crossed the bridge of the 
Drome, all singing at the tops of our voices, 
we fairly made the buttresses shake ! 

With bunches of box and laurel stuck in 
our guns and in our hats, covered with a thick 
coat of dust, and all singing “Tremblez, tyrans 
et vous perfides!” we crossed the city of 
Valence at midday in the full blaze of the sun. 
The whole population was out to look at us. 
Men, women and children, all pale and un- 


ittarcl) of tlic illarsdllee fiattfliion. 171 


easy, gazed at us as we passed — not knowing 
whether to be frightened or to be comforted ; 
wondering who we were and whence we 
came and where we were going. As we 
marched on I heard an old woman say: “ It is 
Jourdain’s army of cut-throats!” — and she 
crossed herself as if a thunder-clap had just 
burst forth. 

But the Commandant called out : “No stop- * 
ping! The country is in danger!” And on 
we went, the drums beating the quick-step, 
and Valence soon was left behind. We sang 
the “Marseillaise”; and drum-beat and song 
echoed back to us from the limestone rocks on 
the other bank of the Rhone; so that it seemed 
as if off there, too, another army of the Reds of 
the Midi were marching to the assault of Paris. 

Rub your crusts of bread with garlic, good 
Federals, good Patriots! March bravely on and 
on! Up there in Paris must come the hardest 
task of all. March on and on with bleeding 
feet. The way is dull and hard, the road is 
long — but at the end stands Liberty ! 

We crossed the bridge of the Isere, made 
our camp about sundown in the forest of Car- 
nage; and started again toward morning so as 
to reach by evening the city of Vienne. As 
we marched along the peasants dropped their 


172 


®l)e Eeb0 of tl)e iHibi. 


work and ran across the fields to stare at us. 
We frightened and astonished them ; and when 
we joked them — calling out: “Oh, he, ox- 
herd, is it fine to-day or “ Look out, reaper, 
your whet-stone case is leaking!” — they an- 
swered in a patois which was neither one thing 
nor the other and like people who did not un- 
derstand. It v/as easy to see they were 
Northern lumpkins. Why, they had a twist 
in their talk that the very devil must have 
puffed into their faces ; and already they spoke 
like the Paris folks, with a twang in the nose. 

The day went on, and toward sunset we 
were come close to Vienne. The city stood 
before us, high up on the banks of the Rhone; 
and above the city rose still higher the cathe- 
dral of Saint Maurice — towering above walls 
that seemed as big and high as those of the 
Roman theatre at Orange. 

At the sight of this great city 1 was seized 
again by my longing to be harnessed to our 
cannon, and so to enter it looking like a man. 

1 fell out from the ranks under pretence of 
fastening my shoes and let the Battalion pass 
until the rear-guard came up to me with the 
cannon and forge. 

“See here, partner,” said 1 to a Federal 
whose feet were cut and bleeding but who 


iHarcl) of tl)c iHarseillcs Battalion. 173 


was tugging away at his harness strap, puff- 
ing and blowing like an angry lizard. “It 
seems to me that that cannon isn’t walking 
alone J ” 

“Not a bit of it, youngster. If you’d like 
to try a pull, we’ll see what meat you are 
made of” 

“It is just what I want to do,” I answered; 
and without more words I laid my gun and 
sword and bundle on the truck, the Federal 
slipped out of his strap and slipped me into it 
without stopping the march — and there 1 was, 
pulling with might and main. 

Sergeant Peloux, when he saw the first tug 
I gave at the collar, called out: “Go slow, kid, 
you’ll be blown in no time at that rate — to say 
nothing of smashing the harness.” 

This snubbing, though it was only in fun, 
quieted me for a minute or two; but then off I 
went again, tugging harder than ever. As we 
started up the slope to the city all the bells 
were ringing and cannon were thundering out 
from the walls; and as we got higher the 
townsfolk came out to meet us in swarms. It 
was the Fourteenth of July, the festival of the 
Federation. We had barely room to pass, the 
streets were so crowded; and the people had 
to look out for their toes as our wheels rumbled 


174 


®l)e Eeb0 of tl)e ifliM. 


and bumped over the stones. In order to be the 
more looked at, I bent over almost on all fours, 
like a beast When I passed a group of girls I 
raised my head a little and, red as a flaming 
devil and with flashing eyes, I made my voice 
deep and shouted: “Vivo la Nacien!” And 
how enchanted I was when now and then 
some girl pointed me out and said: “Just look 
at that young fellow. Goodness, how he 
frightens me! ” But what I did not like to hear 
was when they said: “Oh, poor little one! 
He is hardly more than a child — he hasn’t a 
hair on his chin! ” Then I would drag harder 
than ever at my harness, and shout louder than 
ever: “Vivo la Nacien!” I even thundered 
out big words and big oaths one on top of the 
other. I was very young, then ! 

The Patriots of Vienne entertained us well 
that evening; and the next morning, before 
leaving the city, the Battalion went to pre- 
sent arms before the altar of the Federation 
that had been raised in the open space in front 
of the church. Here we all bent the knee 
and sang the verse: “Amour sacre de la Pa- 
trie! ” Hardly had we ended it when a group 
of school children, led by their teacher, a young 
Abbe, presented themselves before the altar 
and, kneeling as we had done, sang to the air 


iUarcl) of tl)e iUarseiUes Battalion. 175 


of the “ Marseillaise ” a verse that we never be- 
fore had heard, beginning : 

In the path our elders showed us 
We will follow when they’re gone. 

This beautiful verse set our patriotic fires to 
blazing and upset us completely. Tears were 
in all eyes, and each one of us took up a child 
in his arms and kissed it over and over again. 
Older people embraced each other, and every 
one shouted “Vive les Federes! Vive la Na- 
tion! Down with the tyrant King! ” 

Commandant Moisson hugged the little 
Abbe, who had made all out of his own head 
the new verse, and said: “Thanks, Patriot, 
thanks! We will sing your children’s verse 
on the ruins of the King’s Castle.” And the 
little Abbe, his eyes wet with tears, answered : 
“ Your patriotic song went right to my heart, 
and sent a thrill into the very marrow of my 
bones. Never before have 1 heard the voice of 
God ring out so clear: may His blessing go 
with you and His arm give you strength ! ” 
Then the drums rattled and off we marched 
to “ Allons enfants de la Patrie! ” 

All Vienne followed us, shouting. I had 
harnessed myself again to the truck. A little 
monkey six or seven years old took upon him 


176 


0:i)e Eeb 0 of tl)e iHibi. 


to carry my gun, another one carried my 
sword, and a third my bundle. A swarm of 
children buzzed around and followed us like so 
many flies. From time to time the smallest 
had to run in order to keep up with us. I felt 
that no one could understand as I did the de- 
light of these little fellows. It made me as 
proud as a pig on stilts to see how they ad- 
mired me and how set up they were by carry- 
ing my gun or my sword, or even by my let- 
ting them finger the fine gilt buttons on my coat. 

But as we went on farther and farther, and 
the town came to be a long way behind us, 
we had to tell the children that it was time for 
them to go home. Handing back the arms 
and the other things we had allowed them to 
carry, the good little fellows obeyed us and 
stopped short : and there they stood watching 
us, longingly, until we were hidden from them 
by a turn in the road. Just as they lost sight 
of us they all together began to sing in their 
high pitched clear voices the verse which the 
little Abbe had added to the “Marseillaise”: 

In the path our elders showed us 

We will follow when they’re gone. 

Without any order being given, the whole 
Battalion halted; and we stood silent and 


inarcl) of tl)e ilXarscilles Battalion. 177 


deeply moved listening to that thrilling song. 
It seemed to go deep down into our hearts, 
and we were comforted and strengthened by 
it. Turning about and facing us, Commandant 
Moisson said: “Listen, friends, listen well — 
for this is the last time that you will hear the 
sound of Patriot voices; the voices of the Reds 
of the Midi. Our feet are now on Northern 
soil. Henceforward we shall be among the 
Anti-Patriots — the men who have tried to stop 
the Revolution by opening to strangers and 
enemies the frontiers of France. Let us show 
the Aristocrats who we are and what we want. 
Let them know that nothing can turn us back; 
that for us it is Death or Liberty! ” Then the 
drums beat and again we went on. 

We marched almost steadily for three days 
and nights — drinking the water of brooks and 
ditches, eating only bread and garlic, and taking 
only snatches of sleep as the chance came. Up 
there in the land of fogs we could not count 
on the soft straw of the threshing-floors for our 
rest by night, nor on the cool dry grass of 
shady fields for our rest by day. Not a bit of 
it! The wheat was just getting into ear in 
that country of nothing— which God certainly 
had gone through by night — and the fields were 
soaking with dew or mist until three or four in 


178 


®l)e Uebs of tl)e ittibi. 


the afternoon ; it took the sun so long to drink 
up the moisture. 

Well, as 1 said, we marched for three days 
and three nights, and so came to the bridge of 
Saint-Jean d’Ardieres — farther north than Lyons 
(which city we had passed at early dawn with- 
out stopping) ; farther north, even, than Ville- 
franche. There, on the shady banks of the 
Ardieres, we halted for some hours during the 
hottest part of the day. In the twinkling or 
an eye the Battalion was at rest beside the 
river. Some stretched themselves out in the 
shade of the willows; one dabbled in the 
clear water, another ate a bit of bread, another 
mended a tear in his clothes, and another put 
a stitch in his shoe. But 1 remained on the 
bridge with the cannon; for Vauclair had told 
me that the Paris coach might pass us there, 
and not for an empire would 1 have gone to 
sleep and so missed the chance of seeing Lazuli 
and little Clairet. 

In order to amuse myself while the others 
slept, I seated myself on the parapet of the bridge 
and spread open my bundle that Lazuli had so 
well put up for me and had so carefully knotted 
and arranged. I examined my two pistols — 
taking out and sharpening the flints and rubbing 
off here and there a spot of rust — and it seemed 


ittarcl] of tl)e ittatBeiiles Battalion. 179 


to me that in possessing them I possessed all 
that a man could desire to own on this earth. 
Then I uncorked my gourd full of brandy and 
sniffed at it, and without tasting it enjoyed the 
good smell. 1 felt the three silver crowns that 
Monsieur Randoulet, good Monsieur Randoulet, 
had given me. 1 tried on my sash, my fine 
red taiolo; 1 looked at my black shining pow- 
der and counted my store of pistol balls ; and 
then, before packing all up again, I turned to 
my pistols once more. Oh, my pistols! I 
could not bear to let them out of my hands. 1 
could not tire of looking at them. And to 
think that they were my own! 

While I was going on with all this child’s 
play a noise made me jump — the sound of bells. 

I thought that it must be the coach; and 1 
turned around and stared off into the distance 
as far as 1 could see the road. There was 
nothing in sight — not the smallest black spot, 
not a puff of dust — and yet nearer and clearer 
came the sound of jingling bells. And then, 
while I listened with pricked up ears and stared 
down the empty highway, there came out from 
a sunken road behind a flowering hedge close 
by me a little flock of ten or twelve sheep, fol- 
lowed by an old shepherd who, in spite of the 
heat, was closely muffled in his big shepherd's 


i8o 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


cloak. As soon as the old man saw me he 
bent down his head, pulled his hat over his 
eyes, and turned as if to retrace his steps. But 
it was too late. The sheep already had jumped 
up on the road and he had to follow them. He 
seemed to be less fearful when he found that 1 
was all alone, for he came toward me and 
asked me the way to the ferry across the 
Rhone. 

“ Tm the wrong one to come to with that 
question, good man,” said 1, “fori don’t be- 
long in these parts.” 

“Who are you, then, and where are you 
going,” he asked kindly. “You look very 
young to be wearing the uniform of the Na- 
tional Guard.” 

“1 am a Federal Patriot, and 1 am going to 
Paris with the Marseilles Battalion to make 
the King hear reason and to bring him to 
terms.” 

“What do you mean by that? Bring to 
terms our King, our good King, the father of 
us all! What are you thinking about, my 
child ? But where is this Marseilles Battal- 
ion?” 

“There is our artillery,” 1 answered, point- 
ing to the cannon. “Our men are down there 
by the river, resting in the shade.” 


Marti) of tl}e iHaraeilles Battalion. i8i 


“ Oh Saints of God have mercy ! ” exclaimed 
the old shepherd, raising his eyes on high and 
putting his hands together in the way a priest 
does when he says mass. “Is it possible, my 
child, that you have been misled to believe that 
the King must be ‘ made to hear reason ’ as 
you call it so glibly ? Listen well to me, for 
you are in an evil way : you are going straight 
into the jaws of hell. I also am a good patriot ; 
and I tell you that you will better serve your 
country if you will stay here as a shepherd, as 
I am doing, than if you go up with your Bat- 
talion into the North. Come now, 1 will make 
you a good offer. You shall help me to take 
care of my flock, and I will pay you well and 
you will have little work to do. And when 
we have led the flock up into the high pas- 
tures in the Alps 1 will give you a third of it 
for your own. You will be a little capitalist." 

“Desert the Battalion!" 1 cried. “Never! 
You might give me all the sheep in all the moun- 
tains and on all the plains, and you might stuff 
my pockets full of gold crowns — but I never 
would stir from the Battalion so much as a 
single step! Vive la Nation! Liberty or 
Death!" 

“ Poor child, poor child, your head is 
turned! So young, and talking of death. Un- 
14 


i 82 


®l)e Hebs of tl)e iJlibi. 


happy boy! Don’t you know that our Lord 
Jesus Christ when he died on the cross forgave 
those who put him to death ? Are there no 
cures in your country, have you never heard 
good Christian words ? ” 

“Yes indeed, there is a good cure in our 
village; he is as good as he can be, and his 
name is Monsieur Randoulet. He saved my 
life; he drew me out of the claws of the Mar- 
quis and his game-keeper who wanted to kill 
me.” 

“Well then, my child, in the name of that 
holy man who saved your life, listen to me. 
Promise me that until your last gasp you 
always will carry about you this medal on 
which is the image of Notre-Dame-de-Bon- 
Secours. She will keep you from wrong do- 
mg. 

As he spoke, the old shepherd pulled a 
plug out of the top of his staff; and from the 
hollow place inside, as he turned the staff up- 
side down, there fell out shining medals and 
louis-d'ors. He took a medal, pressed it to his 
lips, and gave it to me. Then he took one of 
the gold pieces and also gave it to me, saying : 
“The medal is a coin that will save your soul 
from sin, and the louis-d’or is a coin that will 
keep your body from poverty and harm. If 


ittarcl) of tl)e ittarseilks Battalion. 183 


ever you chance to fall into the hands of those 
whom you believe are such wicked people, 
those whom you call Anti-Patriots, show them 
your medal and it will save your life. But 
speak not to any one of what you have just 
seen and heard. Now 1 must leave you. 1 
am in haste. May God take you in his holy 
keeping.” 

As he talked to me the old shepherd gently 
stroked my cheeks as Monsieur Randoulet was 
used to do when he met me on the road to 
the ChMeau de la Garde, and 1 felt him mak- 
ing with his thumb the sign of the cross on 
my forehead. Then, followed by his sheep, 
he went quickly down the other side of the 
road; and as he passed away from me I 
still heard him repeating: “Poor child! Poor 
child!” 

I was so surprised that 1 just stared after 
him and never said thank you. 1 watched 
him until he was hidden from me by a dip in the 
land, and then 1 came back to my bundle, all 
open and spread out on the bridge. Somehow 
this encounter had upset me and changed my 
thoughts. Neither pistols nor red scarf amused 
me any more. 1 began to put together my 
bundle again; and while doing this 1 heard the 
sound of horses galloping beyond the very 


Eebs of tl)e iHiM. 


flowering hedge from behind which the shep- 
herd had come forth with his flock. 

I turned around quickly ; and to my amaze- 
ment I saw four mounted gendarmes, cockade 
in hat, with drawn swords and pistols stuck 
in their belts, riding straight toward me at full 
gallop as if they meant to cut me down. But 
they drew up short on the bridge, and their 
leader asked me sharply: “Citizen Patriot, 
have you seen pass here a shepherd with a dull 
brown cloak around him driving a little flock 
of sheep ? ” 

My blood ran cold at this question, for it 
showed me that trouble was in store for the 
poor old man. Instantly, without stopping 
to think about it, I answered: “ No! ” 

“That’s a pity,” said the roughest looking 
of the lot. “We should have stuck to his 
tracks. Then the country would be safer, for 
we would have delivered the Revolution from 
its worst enemy.” 

What the fellow said startled me. Could it 
be possible that the old shepherd was an ene- 
my to the good cause ? I was sorry 1 had said 
no so quickly, and I corrected myself by add- 
ing: “1 did not see him, but if 1 do not mis- 
take I heard the sheep-bells down there along 
the river path.” 


illarcl) oi tl)e iHarscilles Battalion. 185 


‘‘That must be he,” said the leader of the 
gendarmes; and in a moment they had turned 
their horses ;and had gone galloping along the 
path the old shepherd had followed when he 
^eft me. 

At first I scarcely realized what had passed, 
and then I began to be frightened. Ought 1 to 
bold my tongue about it all, or ought 1 to tell 
Vauclair, 1 wondered; while the blood mounted 
up into my cheeks and my heart beat fast. 1 
hoped that the old man had taken a cross-road 
and would not be caught, for 1 felt that 1 had 
set his pursuers on his track. And then, as 1 
did not know what 1 ought to do, I went back 
to my bundle and began to put it together 
again. The sun was going down and I knew 
that it soon would be time for the Battalion to 
start. Some of our men came up on the bridge 
— while 1 still was fussing over my bundle and 
staring along the path that the old shepherd 
had taken — and presently I thought that 1 
could hear, above their talking, the sound of 
more distant voices and the jingling of bells. 

I was right. A minute or so later 1 saw red 
plumes showing through the willows, and then 
out came the four gendarmes cruelly drag- 
ging after them the poor old shepherd tied fast 
to a horse’s tail as if he had been a robber. 


i86 


®l)e 1icb0 of tlie iHibu 


He was in danger of being crushed by the feet 
of the prancing and kicking horses, who 
knocked him about and covered him with their 
sweat and foam. As the gendarmes rode up to 
us on the bridge they raised their swords and 
shouted “Vive la Nation!” and our men, of 
course, crowded around them asking questions. 

“What has he done?” demanded Captain 
Gamier. 

“It seems to me,” said Samat, “that you 
are pretty hard on him. No doubt he is an 
Anti-Patriot; but let him go now and I will 
give him The Rights of Man to munch on ” — 
and he began to unfurl his banner. 

“He is a traitor, a miserable wretch that 
death is too good for. Vive la Nation !” an- 
swered the leader of the gendarmes. 

At this answer each man had his own 
thread to spin. “Let him be tried at once and 
give him Marseilles plums to taste! ” cried one. 
“No, powder’s too good to waste on traitors. 
A rope necklace is good enough for him!” 
cried another. “Into the river with him!” 
cried a third. Every one had his say; and in 
the midst of it all the poor old man’s heart 
died out of him and, pale as death, he dropped 
down on the road. 

It was pitiful to see him drop that wav. 


iHarcl) of tl)c iHarseillcs Battalion. 187 


With the help of two or three Federals who 
were as sorry for him as I was, I lifted him up 
and seated him on the parapet of the bridge 
beside my still open bundle; and while the 
gendarmes were talking together, settling how 
they would carry him on one of their horses if 
he couldn’t or wouldn’t walk, 1 quickly un- 
corked my brandy-flask and put it to his lips. 
The strength of the liquor brought back some 
life into him and he opened his eyes. Taking 
my hand in his, he whispered so that no one 
but I heard him: “Thank you, my child. 
May God repay you.” 

Seeing him so sickly, so weak, so old, our 
men changed their key and fell to pitying him, 
muttering that unless he were a very great 
traitor he might as well be let go. 1 was long- 
ing to get rid of the weight on my heart that 
came from having given him into the hands of 
his enemies, and these mutterings gave me 
courage to step up to the gendarmes who 
were preparing to hoist him on one of the 
horses and to say: “This man is half dead, he 
can not do any harm. What difference can it 
make to us whether he is a Patriot or an Anti- 
Patriot ? Let him go and take care of his flock 
— which is most likely all he owns on earth, 
he and his poor wife and children.” 


i88 


Eeirs of tl)e iHibi. 


“Our little man is quite right,” called out 
several of our men together. 

“He’s right, is he? I’ll show you if he’s 
right! ” answered one of the gendarmes angrily; 
and, tumbling off his horse, he flung himself 
like a wolf on the old shepherd and dragged 
from his shoulders his big cloak. And there — 
Saints of God! there was our old man in a 
handsome violet robe with a band of fine lace 
and a golden cross that shone on his breast! 
“Here’s the poor man you were sorry for!” 
cried the gendarme. “ He is neither more nor 
less than the Bishop of Mende, the ci-devant 
Monseigneur de Castillane; and, just as you 
see him here, he is the commander of twenty 
thousand Royalists who are holding the camp 
of jales. And do you want to know where he 
was going ? He was going, the traitor, to 
join the emigres and foreigners who are plot- 
ting together to ruin the Revolution. I’ll prove 
it to you — look here!” As he spoke, he 
snatched the shepherd’s staff from him and 
pulled out the plug and turned it upside 
down. Out poured medals and louis-d’ors; 
and then, as he shook it, out came a roll 
of parchment. The gendarme spread open 
the roll before us; and Commandant Mois- 
son, reading it, cried out: “You are right. 


iUarcl) of tt)e iHarseillea battalion. 189 


This man is a traitor. Here is the Royalist 
plot! ” 

Our men needed no more. “To the river 
with him!” “Kill him!” “Death to the 
traitor!” they shouted; and there was a rush 
toward him and hands were raised and swords 
were drawn. But the gendarmes guarded him 
while they tied him fast to the tail of a horse 
again; and the leader said grimly: “No, friends, 
this piece of work we will attend to ourselves ! ” 
And so they rode away. 

In a couple of minutes we lost sight of 
them, and then our drums beat and we started 
again on our march. 

As we* went onward our men sang and 
joked and talked about the lucky capture of 
the Bishop. But 1 kept silence. The louis- 
d’or and the medal burnt my pocket. I could 
not bear to think about them. Traitor or not, 
I felt very sorry for the old man. My heart 
almost failed me when, as we came out on the 
other side of the bridge, I saw his deserted 
sheep wandering about aimlessly. The poor 
beasts would crop a while, and then suddenly 
would stop eating; and with their mouths 
full of grass they would look around in 
every direction, bleating piteously for their 
lost shepherd. After we had marched a 


190 


QLi)c Hebs of tl)e iHibi. 


good way we still could hear them forlornly 
bleating. 

Our long tramp began to tell on us, and as 
we marched the men became more and more 
silent. The kits and accoutrements, so easy 
to carry at first, grew to be an intolerable bur- 
den on our backs. Many of the men fell foot- 
sore and some of the lamest took off their 
shoes, finding it more comfortable to jog along 
barefoot in the soft dust of the road. 1 was 
harnessed again to my cannon, and 1 tugged 
away patiently. 

We had reached an evil land, a place of 
Aristocrats. The country through which we 
were passing was dreary and dismal,' and was 
overhung by a dreary dull sky made still more 
dull by the long flocks of crows flying across 
it. In every direction, as far as we could see, 
great fields of beans and beets and vetches 
stretched on and on with never a tree in them. 
The houses and huts were roofed with slates 
of a dismal black, and the stern and silent peo- 
ple living there were like the land. Everybody 
we met on the road or in the villages gave us 
sidewise suspicious glances, such as a dog 
gives when he is carrying off a bone. The 
people all looked alike — with their big, pale, 
pasty-white, close-shaven, dirty, hang-dog. 


iHarcl) of tlje ilTarseiUcs Battalion. 191 


stupid animal faces all jowl. They never gave 
us a smile, much less a bottle of wine; they 
gave us nothing, indeed, but the cold shoulder, 
and so slouched away. When at a safe dis- 
tance, they turned and shook their fists at us. 
Even the sun hid himself behind a dull thick 
mist, like a dead man under a shroud ; and yet 
his heat was overpoweringly oppressive. 

On we tramped dully and doggedly, hun- 
gry, weary and footsore. We had no heart for 
laugh or song. Commandant Moisson and 
Captain Gamier began to be uneasy, fearing 
that we would lose heart. They mingled in 
the ranks, doing all they could to cheer us. 
They told us of the wretched condition of the 
people of France and how the wretchedness 
would be relieved as soon as we reached Paris 
and seized the King’s Castle. Only nine days 
more of marching, they said, and the coun- 
try would be saved, the Revolution trium- 
phant. Then all men would be free and all 
hunger satisfied. The harvests of the land 
would belong to those who had sown the seed 
thereof; the fruits of the land would be gath- 
ered by those who had grafted the trees and 
delved about their roots; to the shepherd 
would belong the sheep. 

As for me, 1 needed no cheering words. 


192 


(Jl)e Eebs of tl)e illiM. 


Stones were bread for me, I could have eaten 
thistles and thorns, 1 could have walked on 
broken glass, nothing could have discouraged 
me. 1 pulled away like a galley-slave in my 
harness — only wishing that 1 could drag both 
the cannon and the forge all by myself. It 
hurt me to hear the older men, who had left 
wife and child in Marseilles or Aubagne or 
Arles, muttering among themselves, as if 
afraid of being overheard: “Who knows how 
all this is going to end “ We didn’t know 
Paris was so far away ! ” “ The National Guard 
is all for the King and may go against us.” 
“ It seems we are to be forced to camp outside 
of Paris.” “Then all our long tramp will have 
been for nothing!” And so they grumbled 
on. It just broke my heart to hear them talk 
in this way. To cheer myself and to get some 
go into me, 1 would burst out into the “ Mar- 
seillaise ” — and that for a moment would heart- 
en up the whole Battalion. 

But the endless road was always the same 
long weary way, lengthened out like a bread- 
less day. The villages and hamlets were 
always as dismal as their dull distrustful stupid 
inhabitants, not one of whom would have 
freely given us so much as a drop of water. 
Had their eyes been knives, they would have 


iHarcl) of tl)e ittarseillcs Battalion. 193 


stabbed us through and through. How could 
we, then, be light of heart God’s fire was 
fast dying out of our cold breasts and we 
needed some great stirring to kindle it anew. 

Macon, Tournus and Chalons were left be- 
hind. We had just marched through Autun — 
a hateful Aristocratical hole — without any one 
giving us a good word. It was about five 
o’clock and the sun was low. I was pulling 
away in my harness and Vauclair was walking 
beside me. He seemed thoughtful and sad 
as he said to me: “I don’t see why the 
Avignon' coach has not caught up with us. 
Can anything have happened to it.^ I feel 
anxious. I long so to see Lazuli and my dear 
little Clairet. Lazuli certainly told you that she 
would take the very first coach that left Avi- 
gnon ? ” 

‘‘Yes, certainly; and she said she would 
pass us on the way.” 

“The coach pays tribute to the robbers of 
the Bos de la Damo, and so is safe from them,” 
Vauclair went on. “ But there are the King’s 
carabineers, who are not less, perhaps are 
even more, to be dreaded than the robbers. 
But at the very latest, if nothing has happened, 
the coach ought certainly to catch up with us 
by to-morrow at Saulieu, where we shall camp 


194 


Uebs of tl)e iUibi. 


to-night. Saulieu is a town full of good Pa- 
triots ” 

Vauclair did not finish what he was saying. 
All of a sudden we heard the shrieks of women 
and children coming, as it seemed, from a hut 
about a sling-shot away from the road — a poor 
little place, so low that its thatched roof looked 
to be almost a part of the ground. 

‘ ‘ Help ! Help ! ” came the cry in a woman’s 
voice. In a moment a dozen of our men had 
jumped the ditch and were running across the 
beet-fields to find out what was the matter. 
As they entered the hut the cries and screams 
ceased ; and presently they came back to us, 
bringing prisoner a red-faced Capuchin monk, 
so fat that he seemed as if he would burst his 
tight skin, and three bailiffs as thin as rails and 
yellow as saffron. After them followed a peas- 
ant and his wife, and then came a troop of 
ragged dirty faced children that looked just as 
I used to look up there in the hut of La Garde. 

“Whafs all this row.^” asked Comman- 
dant Moisson, looking sternly at the Capuchin 
and the three bailiffs shivering and cringing in 
the clutches of our men. 

‘"The matter is,” said Margan, who was 
always ready to put in his word, “that this 
Capuchin father, who already is bursting out 


ittarcl) of tl)e illarociUea Battalion. 195 


of his skin from over-eating, brought the three 
bailiffs with him to carry off this poor peasant 
and give him the strappado because he hasn’t 
paid his tithe of chickens.” 

“What! Tithes now-a-days! ” cried long 
Samat. “Why, all that sort of thing has been 
abolished by The Rights of Man ! ” And then 
turning toward the Capuchin, he added : 
“And so we are no longer in France — you 
dirty bundle of lard! ” 

“But that isn’t all,” Margan went on. 
“The old glutton had got loose the peasant’s 
cow and was for taking her away too — so that 
he should be paid for his trouble, he said.” 

Our men were all on fire in a moment over 
this outrage, and some of them began to cast 
loose the straps from the cannon in order to 
make the Capuchin and the bailiffs for once in 
their lives taste leather. But the Commandant 
raised his hand for silence and said: “It is 
strange that a thing of this sort should go on 
in France now-a-days. We must make an 
example of those four Anti-Patriots. They 
shall be stripped as bare as worms, and with- 
out a thread on them they shall haul the forge 
to Paris! Margan, you be driver; and if. they 
need food to make them go, do you feed them 
well with dry blows! ” 


196 


Ecbs of tl)e iHibi. 


When the Capuchin heard this he clasped 
his hands and then crossed himself. Margan 
dragged off his habit, while some of the other 
Federals took the rags off the three bailiffs. 
Then the monk, with a bailiff on each side of 
him, was clapped into the harness; the third 
bailiff was hitched in front of them for a leader; 
the drums struck up the quick-step, and off 
we marched to 

Que veut cette horde d’esclaves, 

De traitres, de rois conjures ? 

As for the peasant and his wife, they stood 
staring after us not knowing whether to laugh 
or to cry. 

Twilight was falling as, hungry and weary 
and footstore, we neared the longed-for little 
town of Saulieu. Since we had left Vienne, 
six days before, we had not seen a single 
woman with a smiling face; nor had we heard 
a friendly word nor received a friendly glance. 
We had slept as we could — on the bare ground, 
on the short grass growing on the sloping road 
sid'^, even in dry ditches. Our only drink had 
been water, sometimes from, wells and brooks, 
sometimes from ditches ; and our food had been 
bread and garlic. Many of us had gone bare- 
foot — either to ease our blistered feet or to save 


ittarcl) of tl)e ittarocilles Battalion. 197 


our precious shoes. And all of us were worn 
with marching. For five and twenty days, 
marching steadily, the Battalion had been on 
the road. 

But at last we were to be welcomed and 
made much of in a friendly Patriotic town. 
Yet even this pleasant promise had in it for me 
a touch of bitterness. As 1 looked around me 
and saw all our men with their bushy dusty 
beards, while my round boyish face was as 
smooth as an egg — though 1 was as dusty and 
sunburnt as any one — 1 was in despair. The 
people in Saulieu certainly would think that 1 
was only a little boy. To have had a nice 
thick dusty uncombed black beard 1 would 
gladly have been as long and thin and pock- 
marked as old Margan. Suddenly 1 had an 
idea. 1 had gathered a capful of ripe black- 
berries while they were harnessing up the 
monk and the bailiffs, and the thought came 
to me that 1 might stain my face to look like a 
beard. 1 put my fine plan straight into prac- 
tice. Taking the blackest and ripest berries, 1 
crushed them under my nose, on my chin, on 
both cheeks, and smeared my face till 1 made 
an absurd fright of myself. Even Vauclair, 
who was the first to catch sight of me, did 
not recognise me at once; and soon all the 
15 


198 


®l)e Bebs of tije illibi. 


men were laughing at my childish foolish- 
ness. 

All the people of Saulieu turned out to 
meet us with torches and drums and trumpets, 
hailing us with shouts of “Vive la Nation!” 
“Down with the tyrant!” “Vive les Mar- 
seillais!” — while up in the church towers the 
bells were ringing the tocsin of the Revolu- 
tion. The men of the Patriots’ Club had 
lighted a big bonfire which was blazing away 
in front of the church of Saint-Saturnin, and 
we almost had to come to fisticuffs to keep 
them from feeding the fire with the fat monk 
and the bailiffs. 

The Saulieu people were good Patriots. 
From father to son they had handed down the 
memory of the old times when their Pastou- 
rells were persecuted and tormented as our 
Albigenses had been. The men of Saulieu 
never forgot all that had been forced down 
their throats in the name of the King and for 
the sake of religion. Bitter bread had they 
eaten in the days of their Pastourells, and they 
knew that the hour of vengeance at last had 
struck for the downtrodden and the perse- 
cuted ! 

How good they were to us in Saulieu! 
They gave us all the wine we could swallow 


iHlarcl) of tl)e iUarseilles jBattalion. 199 


and all the good things we could eat. We 
had enough beef d la daube to go over our 
ears ! The only drawback was that these good 
people talked in a sort of half French and half 
patois that the devil himself must have given 
them. 

1 And what a joy it was to see them fall on 
their knees when we burst forth into “Aux 
armes, citoyens!” The roar of the voices 
mingled with the crackling of the flames of the 
big bonfire. The bright light flashed in our 
faces and sent great shadows flying up the 
church front as the men feeding the fire stooped 
and rose, or as caps and hats were waved in 
the air or brandished on pikes and guns. The 
huge blaze which made the sky seem darker 
and deeper and blacker looked like the mouth 
of hell belching forth whirlwinds of smoke and 
flame, while flying sparks circled round and 
round. 

In the midst of the rejoicing Vauclair seized 
my hand and said as he drew me out of the 
crowd: “Come with me to the post-house. 
The coach may have arrived already. Lazuli 
and Clairet may be there now.” 

Off we went, finding our way as well as 
v/e could through the dark and narrow streets 
of Saulieu. It is but a little town, and we soon 


200 


Uebs cf tl)e itlibi. 


reached the Paris highway ; and far off in the 
black night we saw a lantern dangling over 
the door of what we knew must be the post- 
house. Presently, when we had reached the 
lantern-lit doorway, we crossed the big yards 
and went by the great sheds where the carters 
were coming and going, lantern in hand, load- 
ing or unloading their wagons or setting them 
in order for the march of the next day. We 
passed in front of the dark warm quiet stables, 
hearing the sound of the horses and mules 
munching their sweet-smelling hay or crunch- 
ing away at their comforting oats. 

“See, look there!” cried Vauclair, much 
excited and quickening his pace. “There is 
the Avignon coach — certainly that is it! 1 
should know it anywhere by its high leathern 
cover and green and yellow body and red cur- 
tains — let alone by the sound of that little dog’s 
bark, the loubet up there on top.” 

We hurried on into the inn kitchen, all 
lighted up by a blaze of furze before which 
turkeys and legs of mutton were turning around 
on the spit. The servants were going and 
coming with plates and bottles and jugs. No 
one took any notice of us, and we went on 
into the big room where all the travellers were 
at table. And then, before we had seen her, 


iHarcl) of tl}e ittarseilles Battalion. 


201 


Lazuli flung herself on Vauclair’s neck, hugging 
and kissing him and crying: “My own man! 
My Vauclair!” — and presently adding: “At 
last we’ve got here. There is little Clairet 
asleep on the bench in the corner. Wake him 
up yourself — for three days he has been calling 
for his father! ” 

Vauclair was so upset that he couldn’t say 
a word. He followed Lazuli as she made her 
way among the crowded tables ; and I followed 
too — unable to understand why Lazuli had not 
even spoken to me, let alone given me a kiss. 

Little Clairet was fast asleep, wrapped up in 
his mother’s fringed shawl. Lazuli picked him 
up, stood him on his feet, and as she shook him 
gently said to him : “ Clairet, Clairet my darling, 
wake up — here is your father! ” But the little 
fellow was so dead with sleep he could not 
open his eyes nor hold up his head. Vauclair 
took him in his arms, and as he kissed him, 
rubbing his cheeks with his rough beard, the 
child began to waken. The bright light 
bothered him, and at first he put his elbow up 
over his eyes; but his father’s voice at last 
roused him completely and as he recognised 
him he hugged him round the neck. 

All this time 1 was waiting for my turn to 
come; and Vauclair, seeing me, said to the 


202 


QL\)t Hebs of tl)e Mibl 


little fellow: “ Haven’t you a kiss for Pascalet, 
who gave you his grapes ? Come, give him a 
good hug.” But as Clairet caught sight of me 
he threw himself back as if 1 had been the 
devil with all his horns! 

At this Lazuli gave a little jump, and as she 
clapped her hands and burst out laughing, she 
exclaimed: “ Heavens and earth! Is that Pas- 
calet What has he been doing to himself.^ 
What’s that black all over his cheeks Oh, 
what a scarecrow of a black snout! ” 

And then I remembered that 1 still was all 
stained with the blackberries, and feeling as 
flat as a quoit 1 ran to the kitchen to clean my- 
self. 1 plunged my face into a bucket of water 
and rubbed hard enough to take the skin 
off, and then ran back. This time Clairet 
knew me and kissed me, and Lazuli kissed 
me too. 

The Avignon coachman, having fed his 
horses, had come to the next table and gave us 
a friendly look as he began to eat on both sides 
of his mouth at once. Lazuli soaked a biscuit 
in wine, and while she fed Clairet with it told 
all that had happened in Avignon after we left 
and during her journey. 

“You will never guess,” said she, “who is 
in the coach with us, going to Paris ! She’s a 


illarcl) of tl)e illarseillcs BoUolion. 203 


nasty neighbour, I can tell you, and 1 haven’t 
opened my mouth to her the whole way.” 

“Who is it?” asked Vauclair. 

“Of all people in the world, it’s Lajaca- 
rasse! She has brought along her bag and her 
big knife; and on top of the foulness that 
comes of her pig-cleaning she has a breath 
that fairly reeks of wine. But her nastiness is 
no great matter. What touches my heart is 
the young girl she has with her. I’m sure 
against her will — a child not more than fifteen 
who is as pretty and sweet and charming as 
she can be. I can see the poor little soul 
tremble and shiver with fear whenever La 
Jacarasse looks at her or makes any sign to 
her. Poor lamb, what will that woman do 
with her! There is something all wrong 
about it.” 

“ There certainly is something wrong about 
it,” said the coachman, turning toward us and 
lowering his voice. “Things are happening 
now-a-days that make one shudder. Did you 
hear that a few days ago in Avignon some 
fishermen from the Porte de la Ligne found in 
the Rhone, caught against the first pier of the 
bridge of Saint-Benezet, the body of the young 
Marquis de Roberty, bound and disem- 
bowelled ? Well, folks say that La Jacarasse 


204 


QL\}t Eebs of tl)e illiM. 


and two or three other wretches cut him open 
and threw him into the river. And I happen 
to know that this very Marquis de Roberty 
was betrothed to the very young lady who is 
with La Jacarasse now. Her name has clean 
gone out of my head, though 1 knew it when 
we left Avignon. Now don’t a two and two 
like that make four ? 1 am sure that the old 

she devil has another crime in hand, and that 
she will work it against this innocent child. 
It is easy to see that the poor girl is half dead 
with fear of what may be going to happen to 
her.” 

But here the coachman suddenly remem- 
bered that time was passing and stopped short 
in his talk. 

“ We must be off in less than half an hour,” 
he said, and fell to finishing his supper — taking 
a bit of bread and sopping up every drop of 
gravy on his plate and polishing it till it looked 
as clean as if it had just come out of the dish- 
tub. Then he got up clumsily, balancing his 
heavy shoulders as is the way with carters, 
and went lumbering off to make ready for the 
starting of the coach. 

“Less than half an hour more,” said Vau- 
clair. “Now listen. Lazuli, and don’t forget 
what 1 tell you : As soon as you get to Paris 


iHarcl) of tl)e iflarseillco Battalion. 205 


go to my old master Planchot, the joiner. He 
lives at the end of the Impasse Guemenee, 
opening from the Rue Saint-Antoine, a little 
way off the Place de la Bastille. It is on the 
Place de la Bastille that you leave the coach. 
When you get to the house you must say to 
Master Planchot: ‘1 am the wife of Vauclair, 
who worked a year of his time with you. 
He is coming up with the Marseilles Battalion 
to help settle the affairs of the Revolution, and 
he sent me on before to hire the lodging that 
he used to have here in your house.’ You will 
see how pleased the master will be, and how 
gladly he will rent you my old lodging — with 
its little kitchen and all. There you will be 
safe and quiet; and if any bad luck comes to 
me or to Pascalet, we will be much better off 
there than on a bed in a barracks or in a hos- 
pital. But the first thing of all is that you 
don’t forget the name of the street where 
Planchot lives — Impasse Guemenee. Say it 
over after me. Impasse Guemenee. ” 

''Guemenee, Impasse Guemenee. All right, 

I won’t forget it, ” Lazuli answered ; and laughed 
as she added: “How one has to bring one’s 
lips to a point to talk like those Paris don- 
keys! ” 

“And now another thing,” said Vauclair. 


2o6 


®l)e Ecba of tl)e iHibi. 


“Did you get some silver money before leav- 
ing Avignon ?” 

“Don’t worry — I sold my little trinkets 
and my carved ivory crucifix to Nathan the 
Jew, and that made me all right.” As she 
spoke, Lazuli took Vauclair’s hand and put 
it under her shawl, at the same time add- 
ing in a low voice: “There, feel how I have 
sewed my yellow and white money in the lin- 
ing of my waist. The coachman swore to us 
that he had paid toll to all the bands that 
haunt the road to Paris — still, one never knows 
what may happen and it’s well to be on the 
safe side.” 

“You’re a treasure of a woman!” cried 
Vauclair, as he bent forward and kissed her. 
Almost in the same moment he turned round 
suddenly saying: “What’s that I hear ? There 
are our drums beating the recall; and thb 
alarm-bells ringing, too. Something has hap> 
pened. Quick, Pascalet, take your gun. Good- 
bye, Lazuli — a safe trip to you. Clairet, my 
dear little Clairet, good-bye.” Vauclair took 
up the child in his arms and kissed him, while 
his eyes filled with tears. And I, clumsily 
loaded down with my sword and gun and 
bundle, also kissed Clairet and Lazuli and said 
good-bye. 


iHarcl) of tl)e iHarseilles Battalion. 207 


By this time the drums were beating furi- 
ously and the bells were ringing louder and 
louder. One more kiss and a last word. 
‘‘ Lazuli,' remember, when you get to Paris go 
straight to old Planchot’s. Impasse Guemenee, 
you hear.?” As we pushed forward to the 
door we heard behind us, back in the depths 
of the inn, the harsh rough voice of La Jaca- 
rasse calling out to the serving- woman : ‘ ‘ Here, 
bring me another jug of wine!” And then 
the serving-woman passed us, muttering : 
‘‘Dirty pig, I wish it might choke you! ” 

In a moment more we were in the street, 
running through the dark night to join the Bat- 
talion and to find out what had caused the 
alarm. We ran through streets and open 
spaces without meeting a living soul ; hearing 
now and then a shutter pulled in and barred, 
or a key turned in the lock, or a bolt pushed 
fast by timid folk who were shutting them- 
selves up in their houses. 

The smoke from the dying bonfire and the 
shouting and singing of the crowd guided us 
on our way through the crooked streets; 
and, somehow or other, we came out all right 
on the big open space in front of the church. 
There we found our men all in line, with guns 
shouldered and bayonets mounted ready to 


2o8 


®l)e Eebs of tlje illibi. 


start. In front of the Battalion was a man on 
horseback, at whom I stared with all my 
might to try and make out who he was — 
with his cocked hat and with his gilt but- 
tons which sparkled in the faint rays coming 
from the few embers left of the great brush 
fire. Just then the drummers who had been 
drumming the recall through all the streets 
came back, making a most tremendous racket. 
The Battalion burst forth into the “Marseil- 
laise.” The crowd clapped hands, shouted, 
screamed, sang and howled, while the bells 
kept on madly pealing the tocsin. Never can 
I forget the roar that in that sombre night rose 
from the throats of thousands of men. Over- 
topping the roaring crowd, like a black statue 
sharply defined against the starry sky, was the 
silent motionless man on horseback. 

Suddenly the horse stamped, striking out 
sparks from the paving stones. The horseman, 
raising his arm, motioned to the crowd to keep 
silence. As if by enchantment, the cries, the 
songs stopped, the drums ceased beating, the 
bells rang no more, and there was utter and sol- 
emn silence. Then the man on horseback spoke 
to us: “My brave men of Marseilles, I have 
ridden full speed from Paris to tell you what 
is being said and planned there. The Anti- 


illarcl) of tl)e illareeilles Battalion. 209 


Patriots, the Counter-Revolutionists, the Aris- 
tocrats, all slaves of the King, have reported 
everywhere that you are brigands, that you 
have escaped from the galleys at Toulon, that 
you are the scrapings of the port of Marseilles, 
that you are Corsican bandits ! They say that 
you have pillaged, burned, pulled down, mur- 
dered, and torn open all on your way hither. 
They even say that you crucified an old Canon 
at the door of the club in Avignon, and that 
you killed and quartered the Bishop of Mende 
at the bridge of Saint-Jean d’Ardieres — and 
who knows how much more they’ve said of 
this same sort! King Capet — the tyrant who 
has made a covenant with foreigners to invade 
France and massacre all French Patriots — wants 
to keep you from coming to Paris : so that he 
can the more easily bring his Germans and 
Austrians into France. The King plotted this 
black treason with the generals of the Emperor. 
If we had not caught and stopped him at 
Varennes the unnatural traitor would now be 
at the head of more than a hundred thousand 
foreigners : thirty thousand Austrians from the 
North, fifteen thousand Germans to come by 
way of Alsace, fifteen thousand Italians to come 
through Dauphiny, twenty-five thousand Span- 
iards to come across the Pyrenees, and as many 


210 


Ueba of ti)e iHibx. 


Swiss to invade us through Burgundy. This 
swarm of stranger enemies was to be spread 
like a pest over all our France of the Revolu- 
tion; and, led by the tyrant himself and by the 
emigre nobility, it was to have given back full 
power to the King. And then — woe to the 
Poor! Good-bye to Liberty ! Farewell to the 
Rights of Man! 

“ This same King Capet says that you shall 
not go to Paris; that he will bar the way. 
King Capet says you shall go to Soissons. 
King Capet in his foolhardiness does not under- 
stand that we men of the South fear nor pow- 
der nor fire nor steel! He does not know that, 
backed by the wrath of all Southern France, 
you come to abolish the throne, to smite into 
pieces the crown, to take vengeance for the 
past! King Capet says you shall go to Sois- 
sons. Has King Capet forgotten that there in 
Soissons is the famous axe with which his an- 
cestor Clovis cowardly murdered his poor sol- 
dier ? You, who are the strong arm of God, 
will lift up that same axe and with it you will 
cleave Capefs head from his shoulders! Up, 
men of Marseilles! Up, Patriots! Rise up for 
Death or Liberty! ” 

So saying, the man swung his horse around 
and cried out to us as he galloped off into the 


illarcl) of tl)e iUarseiUcs Battalion. 


2II 


darkness: ‘M go before to tell to the men of 
the Revolution and to the Patriot Barbaroux 
that the Marseilles Battalion is advancing at a 
forced march on Paris. Vive la Nation! ” 

“ Vive Rebecqui! Vive Barbaroux! Vive 
la Nation! Down with the tyrant! ” answered 
we in one formidable shout as the horseman 
vanished into the night on his way to Paris. 

Commandant Moisson flashed his sabre and 
cried to us: '‘Boys, the Marseilles Battalion 
starts now and rests no more. There is nor 
stop nor pause for us until we camp on the 
threshold of King Capet’s Castle! ” 

The Battalion answered him by bursting 
out into “ Allons enfants de la Patrie!" The 
drums beat the quick-step; and off we 
marched, with the strength of God’s thunder 
in our bones. We were as vigorous and as 
strong as the day we had started on the Paris 
road. 

Out of the way, you weak blooded monk! 
Scat! you sick silkworms of bailiffs! We want 
no more of your help. And again we har- 
nessed ourselves to our cannon and, sweating 
and singing, went joyously on our way. 

I kept wondering who was this man Re- 
becqui, this man on horseback who had spoken 
so well. Rebecqui, Rebecqui, who was he? 


212 


Eebe of tl)e illibi. 


Everybody said that he was from Paris, but if 
so then the Paris people spoke as they did in 
Avignon. He must be such another, I decided, 
as that Barbaroux who was waiting for us up 
in Paris ; Barbaroux whom every one idolized, 
Barbaroux who was to save the Revolution. 
And so, thinking no more about him, I took 
up our chorus: “ Aux armes, citoyens!” 

The good red wine we had drunk, the 
tocsin that we still could hear off in the dis- 
tance, and above all the fiery words of that 
Rebecqui, had put new life into us. Never 
had we marched more steadily, never had we 
felt less weariness or more go. When we 
were not singing the “Marseillaise” we were 
shouting “Down with the tyrant! We’ll get 
into Paris. We’ll get into his Castle. He 
doesn’t want us there, but he’ll have to have 
us! ” And then we would close up our ranks 
and burst out again with : “ Amour sacre de la 
Patrie!” 

At daybreak, still singing, we marched 
through a big town — I don’t remember its 
name — where we had been told that King 
Capet with his army and the people around 
were to bar our way. But not a soul was 
stirring — no one was in the streets. We made 
the houses shake as we marched through. 


iHarcl) of the iflarseillcs Battalion. 213 


Samat unfurled the banner of The Rights of 
Man, but he couldn’t find any one to kiss it — 
until he caught sight of an early beadle who 
was opening the doors of a church. He dashed 
upon the bewildered beadle, and when he had 
made him kiss the banner he burst into the 
church like a whirlwind and marched around 
it holding up his banner to be kissed by all the 
saints of wood and stone; and when this mat- 
ter had been settled to his satisfaction he came 
running up to us, all out of breath to take again 
his place in the ranks. 

When the sun had sucked up the mists so 
that his sharp rays stung our necks like needles, 
we halted on the banks of a stream and ate 
our pittance of dry bread and garlic. But our 
halt was short. We were charged with God’s 
thunder — and the thought of our high duty 
urged us on. Some of the men began to drag 
behind, limping on bleeding feet; but they 
struggled along bravely and would not give in. 
To drown the murmurs of pain, which even 
the best of them could not wholly stifle, we 
sang the “ Marseillaise.” 

This terrible forced march lasted altogether 
for seven days and seven nights. As we 
marched we ate our everlasting garlic .and 
bread, the bread often mouldy, and all we had 
16 


214 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iUibi. 


to drink was water from ponds or way-side 
ditches. Footsore, hungry, weary — still we 
toiled on. 

Yet we had a laugh now and then — as 
when we passed through a town absurdly 
named Melun, and made our joke about it by 
baptizing it Water-melon. It was a little town, 
packed full of Aristocrats. When its Mayor 
refused to let us have any bread we grinned on 
him with our famished white teeth — and then 
he changed his mind in a jiffy and promised 
us two loaves apiece! While we waited for it 
we camped outside the city gates for three 
hours, and when it came we danced around 
the baskets in a big circle to the tune of “La 
Carmagnole.” After the bread was divided 
Commandant Moisson said to us: “Boys, this 
is the last time you will have to chew on coun- 
try bread — may it set light on your stomachs. 
In two days or less you will taste the bread of 
Paris — and you will take the taste for bread out 
of the tyrant’s mouth ! ” 

What the Commandant promised came to 
pass. The next day we marched through such 
a forest of oaks and ash and beech that it 
seemed to me I was back again on Mont Ven- 
tour. The wood was so shady, the turf so 
thick and soft, that we made a halt; and as we 


iUarcl) of tl)c iUarscilks jl^attalion. 215 


were resting, some of us seated on fallen 
branches, some leaning back against the trees, 
some stretched out at full length on the soft 
grass, we were puzzled by hearing a queer 
noise — a dull humming roar, or buzzing mur- 
mur. Each of us in turn made a guess as to 
what it was. “ It’s bees swarming,” said one, 
and we stared up into the branches to see 
them. “I should say an earthquake,” said 
another, “ only earthquakes don’t last so long.” 
“The sound seems to come from under- 
ground,” said a third; “and yet it almost 
sounds like far off talking, or the firing of can- 
non very far away.” 

“As for me,” said long Samat, “I think 
there is a spring near here that rushes between 
rocks, like the fountain of Vaucluse.” 

“ If we weren’t so far from Marseilles,” put 
in Margan, “I should say it was the noise of 
the sea beating against the rocks of our good 
mother, Notre Dame de la Garde.” 

“If only it isn’t an army of Aristocrats who 
are coming to bar the way,” said Sergeant 
Peloux, frowning as he spoke. 

The Commandant, smiling to himself, lis- 
tened to all our guesses and then said: “Well 
now, if 1 didn’t know you came from Mar- 
seilles 1 should say you were from Martigues — 


2I6 


®l)e Eeba of ti)e iUibi. 


that town where the people gulp down every 
fool-story that is told! That noise which 
puzzles you so is neither swarm, nor earth- 
quake, nor waterfall, nor breakers on the rocks, 
nor is it the roar of an army ; good comrades, 
it is neither more nor less than the voice of 
that great Paris we come to see! It is the 
sound of hammers on anvils, of the rumbling 
of carriages in the streets, of the hum of the 
market place; it is the voice of the people, the 
sobs, the laughter, the angry cries, the joyous 
shouts, of the hundreds and hundreds of thou- 
sands of souls in the Capital! In it are blended 
the clarion notes of Liberty, the frank voice of 
Equality, the sweet tones of Fraternity; and 
also, alas ! the threatening lying voices of selfish- 
ness, of despotism, of hypocrisy and of tyranny. 
Friends, it is said that that dull roar of Paris, 
that jumble of songs and cries and sobs and 
laughter, can be heard five leagues away from 
that great city ! ” 

Hardly were the words out of the Com- 
mandant’s mouth than we were on our feet, 
our guns shouldered and our kits fast on our 
backs. We sang, we shouted! Could it be 
that we were so near to Paris! Vive la Revo- 
lution! Vive Marseilles! Vive Toulon! Vive 
Avignon ! — and we tore branches from the oaks 


Ularcl) of tl)c iHaroeillcs Battalion. 217 


and the beeches with which we dressed our 
guns and our red caps and the gun carriages, 
and we danced a round to the tune of the 
“Carmagnole.” The drums, instead of beat- 
ing the everlasting quick-step, set up a buzz- 
ing like the tambourins on the Saints’ days in 
our villages; and off we capered in a farandole 
— leaping, jumping, swaying, cutting pigeon- 
wings, hugging, crying, and all the while shout- 
ing Paris ! Paris ! Paris — at last ! 

We went on in this crazy fashion for a good 
half hour before we quieted down and got into 
rank once more; and then we marched gaily 
out of the shady forest with never a thought ot 
our past hunger and thirst and weariness and 
pain. As we came from under the trees the 
Commandant, pointing with his sword, 
showed us far away on the edge of the green 
plain a grey line that took up the whole hori- 
zon and was broken by towers and spires and 
had floating over it a little bluish cloud. 

“There is Paris!” said he. 

The whole Battalion, as if the order to halt 
had been given, stopped short. We stood 
silent, staring at the horizon. Something 
gripped fast at our throats and would not let 
us sing the “Marseillaise.” Our eyes were 
blinded with a rush of tears. The Comman- 


2i8 


®l)e Eeb0 of tl)e illibi. 


dant made a sign to the drums and off they 
rattled the quick-step; and as if their rattle 
had given us back our voices we burst out all 
together with 

Aliens enfants de la Patrie, 

Le jour de gloire est arrive! 

Wild, Stern, fierce, we ran rather than 
marched. The carriage of an Aristocrat was 
driving toward us, but when the coachman 
caught sight of us he was so frightened that 
he turned tail and whipped back to Paris at 
full speed. 

By sundown we were come fairly within 
one of the outlying suburbs, on the borders of 
a stream of which I forget the name; and there, 
suddenly, we saw a lot of people coming to 
meet us shouting and waving their arms. 

“Vive les Marseillais! ” they cried. 

“Viveles Patriotes!” we answered — and 
in a moment we had broken ranks and flung 
ourselves into the arms of the crowd. I can 
tell you there was hugging and kissing! And 
as fast as the hugging was over, it all began 
again. Kissing and crying like women, these 
friends who had come to welcome us told their 
names— Barbaroux, Rebecqui, Danton, San- 
terre. 


illarcl) of tl)e iltareeiUes Battalion. 219 


Barbaroux, the famous Barbaroux, the Dep- 
uty from Marseilles, who with his sweet voice 
could fairly beguile the soul out of you, hugged 
our officers all round and said : “To-morrow at 
daybreak you shall enter Paris and go right to 
the tyrant to bring him to reason. Here is San- 
terre, the Commandant of the Garde Nationale, 
who has promised to meet us with forty thou- 
sand men, all ready to cry with us : ‘ Liberty 
or Death! ’ ” 

At this, every one shouted “Vive Barba- 
roux,” and a few in the crowd shouted also 
“Vive Santerrel’ But a good many of us 
didn’t like the looks of this Santerre the 
brewer. He spoke in French fashion through 
his nose, for such is the pretty way of the peo- 
ple up there in the North. Then he did not 
let out his feelings as Barbaroux and Rebecqui 
and Danton had done; nor did he even shake 
any one’s hand. He seemed a sort of imitation 
fine gentleman, who put on gentle airs and 
who sneered at our huggings and dancings and 
singing of “ La Carmagnole.” 

All this time we of the rank and file were 
making friends with the good people of the 
suburb. Patriots all. They mingled with the 
Battalion and the women and children kissed 
our hands. They wanted us to sup and bed 


220 


2ri)e 0f t\)c ilTibi. 


at their homes — fairly fighting to have us, and 
not being contented unless they had two or 
three of us apiece. 1 went off with Margan the 
chatterer to sup and sleep at the house of a fine 
fellow of a gardener. And what a feast he 
gave us! Because we came from the South, 
he gathered from his hotbeds the very first of 
his tomatoes and young egg-plants — that he 
might have sold for almost their weight in 
gold in the Paris markets — and with them 
made for us a paradise of a fricassee! I can 
tell you our jaws wagged over it after our 
weeks and weeks of munching only dry bread 
and garlic and drinking ditc.iwater! And then 
we slept in a real bed with our shoes off and 
our legs bare. 

Name of a name, what a short night it was! 
At two o’clock in the morning, long before the 
first ray of dawn, the drums beat, the shutters 
flew open, the doors were unbarred, and the 
Federals poured out from everywhere, their 
kits on their backs and their guns on their 
shoulders ready to march. As for me, down 
in my pocket 1 found two well dried black- 
berries with which 1 yet managed to make my- 
self a famous pair of moustachios — that 1 might 
go into Paris looking like a man. 

Something, 1 don’t know what, kept us 


iHarcli of tl)e iHarohllcs Battalion. 221 


from starting; and for all our early rising we did 
not get off until the sun was tipping the poplars 
with fire and the little birds were beginning to 
twitter as they waked up in the trees. But 
this time we started for Paris itself! Barbaroux, 
Danton, Rebecqui, with some other deputies to 
the National Assembly, headed the column; 
then came the drums beating the quick-step; 
then the two cannon and the forge, to which 
last 1 was harnessed; then the Battalion, with 
well sharpened swords and with guns loaded 
and primed ready to fire off! Big Samat dis- 
played his banner of The Rights of Man, and 
the whole Battalion struck up : “ Allons enfants 
de la Patrie!” Oh, Holy Liberty! had we but 
met the tyrant in his carriage with all his 
guards we would have made but a mouthful 
of them and him that day ! 

Soon we began to see the first houses of 
the Capital — and what enormous houses they 
were ! The very lowest was higher than the 
spire of our church, so that to look at the eaves 
you had to put your neck out of joint. As we 
drew closer to the city its people came out to 
meet us — headed by a skirmish line of children 
who capered around us and shouted and danced 
and sang. There were workmen, shopkeepers, 
soldiers, and women of the people with woollen 


222 


QL\)c of tlie illiM. 


cockades in their caps showing the national 
colours of blue and white and red. And they 
all were clapping their hands and shouting 
“Vive les Marseillais!” Presently they got 
into line along the road side so as to let us 
pass, and waved their arms to us in sign of 
welcome. It was easy to see that they were 
good Patriots. But as we went farther into 
the town, between the big stone houses with 
their balconies and their beautiful doors, the 
look of the crowd began to change. We met 
carriages coming and going, with their silk- 
stockinged valets perched up before and be- 
hind. In them we caught glimpses of stiff 
Aristocratical mugs, all frizzed and perfumed. 
As soon as he saw these long Samat ran up to 
them and, willy-nilly, made them kiss his 
banner. In the crowd, that was crushed up 
against the wall in order to give us passage 
way, we saw, too, many sedan-chairs all gilded 
like an altar and lined with silk. Two very 
serious-looking men, in cocked-hats and em- 
broidered coats, carried each of them — one 
man before and one behind. Sometimes a 
beautiful powdered lady all lace and ribbons 
would be in the chair, sometimes a marquis — 
dry as a stock-fish or as fat as an urn — in a coat 
of velvet with buttons of gold. But woe be- 


iHflrcl) 0f tl)e ilTarseillcs Battalion. 223 


tide if footman or lady or marquis did not wear 
the tricolour woollen cockade. In a flash a 
Federal would go up to them and snatch away 
the cockade of silk ribbon and stick in its place 
the woollen tricolour that some woman or man 
of the people would give from off their own 
clothes. All this was done instantly, in pass- 
ing, in the push and rush and stir of the 
march. 

A great crowd followed us; drawn on 
partly by the steady roll of the drums as they 
beat our marching-step, but more strongly by 
the terrible chant of the “Marseillaise ” — which 
all the five hundred men of the Battalion sang 
in one tremendous voice loud enough to jar the 
plaster off the walls. Soon the crowd caught 
the words of the chorus and sang with us — 
and then it no longer was five hundred, but a 
thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand, 
singers singing with one voice! That awful 
roar of “Our soil’s athirst for traitor blood 1 ” 
brought hot tears to every Patriot’s eyes and 
sent a glowing thrill through every Patriot’s 
breast. And all those arms flourishing in the 
air together, all those starting eyes sending 
forth the same gleam, all those thousands of 
open jaws uttering the same cry, were enough 
to drive one wild! 


224 


(Jlje laebs of tl)e mibl 


Bending forward, stooping almost on all 
fours, 1 dragged at my cannon and sang as if I 
would tear my throat open. From time to time 
1 would raise myself and look back to see the 
overwhelming, howling, terrible flood of peo- 
ple pouring on close behind us. It seemed as 
if the houses, the trees, the very street with its 
paving-stones, were following us. It seemed 
as if a great mountain were galloping after us 
and was near upon us with its peaks and val- 
leys and forests shaken and riven by the ava- 
lanche, the tempest, the earthquake of God! 

The torrent burst into the Place de la Bas- 
tille, already crammed with a crowd into which 
the Battalion slowly bored its way. On each 
side of us and in front of us was a tremendous 
crush as men and women were pressed to- 
gether like grain on the threshing-floor; and as 
they closed in behind us there was a surging 
eddy in our wake. The ruins of the Bastille 
were covered with people screaming, shout- 
ing, clapping, waving their arms. The broken 
walls, the heaps of stone and plaster, the riven 
beams, the roofless turrets, the windows wide 
open to the four winds of Liberty — all bore 
their loads of sightseers so close packed that 
their . heads came together like a bunch of * 
grapes. 


ittarcl) of tl)e iHarseiUes Battalion. 225 


I dragged away at my harness and, be- 
wildered, glanced aside at the mountains of 
people roaring and flourishing their greetings 
to us; until, by a lucky turn of my eyes, I 
caught sight of Lazuli up on a wall with Clairet 
on her shoulder, laughing and crying with de- 
light and shouting: “ Vive les Marseillais! ” 

But it was not the sight of Lazuli that all in 
a moment made my voice grow husky, my 
blood stop running, my legs that had carried 
me so far give way under me, and my eyelids 
tremble with blinding tears : it was that 1 saw 
beside Lazuli, holding her hand and clinging 
to her as though for shelter, a pale young girl 
lovely as the Virgin — and knew her to be Ade- 
line, Mademoiselle Adeline of the Chtoau de 
la Garde, the angel who had saved my life! 

Old Pascal’s voice broke, and for a moment 
he could not go on. And in that very instant 
bang! bang! bang! came three blows on the 
shutter, and we heard outside the voice of 
Lange, Pascal’s brother, calling: “Come, come. 
Are you going to spend the night here ? You 
have made me get up at two o’clock in the 
morning to look for you. Come right away 
home! ” 

Two o’clock in the morning! Who would 


226 


(Jl)e of tl)e ittibi. 


have believed it ? We all were on our legs in 
a moment; and the next moment we all were 
out in the darkness and scurrying off on our 
various ways through the blackness of the 
night 


^ 5 ' ^' ■ 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN THE STRANGE NEW TIMES. 

It was very clear that after my sitting up 
till two o’clock in the morning I would be 
a desperate sleepy-head all the next day. 
My dear grandfather, I am sure, puzzled his 
brains through a good part of his own short 
night to find some way by which 1 could be 
kept awake during the next evening, and so 
not miss old Pascal’s story — which he himself 
enjoyed as much as 1 did and would not have 
missed for the world. And the good old man 
did find a way that worked very well indeed. 

Usually he was off at daybreak, with his 
hoe and his wallet, to his vine-yard or saffron- 
field. But that morning he pottered about the 
house until after ten o’clock. And then, as if 
he were asking a favour, he said to my mother: 
'U’d like to take our boy out with me this 
morning. A piece of my wall fell down in the 
last rains and must be set up again. 1 want 

227 


228 


®t)e Ecba of tl)e iHibi. 


somebody to hand me the stones. Then I can 
get along faster and finish it to-day.” 

'‘Well,” said my mother, “he went to 
sleep again after I called him and so has missed 
his school, and 1 suppose he might as well go 
along with you and work like a man.” 

And so off 1 went for the day with my 
grandfather. But 1 did not hand him any 
stones — oh, no! Before he set hand to the 
broken wall he hunted out a sheltered corner 
where the sun shone warmly, and there he 
made me a soft bed of dry leaves on which 
he laid me; and on which 1 slept like a saint 
the whole day long. 

When evening came 1 was as bright as a 
button, and so hungry that 1 ate supper enough 
for two. But hardly had my grandfather made 
an end to his own eating, by pushing away 
his plate and snapping his knife together, than 
I was up and had lighted the lantern and was 
tugging at him to hurry him away. Off we 
went, a pair of children together; and we had 
no more than taken our seats in the shoemak- 
er’s shop than Pascal began. 

As I was saying, up there on the ruins of 
the Bastille, 1 caught sight of Lazuli with little 
Clairet on her shoulder, and Mademoiselle 


Sn tlie Strange lS[m (times. 229 


Adeline close beside her holding fast to her arm 
as though in dread that some one. might try to 
snatch her away. I tried to stop to make sure 
that my eyes were not playing a trick on me. 
But there was no stopping then. I could no 
more stand against the forward push of the 
crowd than if I had been a fly. The cannon 
seemed to be alive — to be galloping on of them- 
selves. When 1 half halted, to turn around, the 
wheels of the truck came on me with a bounce 
and 1 had to start ahead in a hurry. And so on I 
went with the crowd, and the Bastille quickly 
was left behind. 1 felt my heart sinking. Some- 
thing seemed to grip it and wring it until I 
hardly could bear the pain. To give myself 
strength and courage again 1 burst out with 
the rest into “Aux armes, citoyens!” and fell 
to dragging at my harness like a wild bull. 

Presently something seemed to be going 
wrong ahead of us, in the Rue de Saint-An- 
toine, and we were pulled up short. And 
then we found that the Garde Nationale of 
Paris was there, barring our way. Santerre, 
the famous Santerre, had met us with a poor 
two hundred men — in place of the forty thou- 
sand that he had promised — and, instead of 
joining us, he was trying to prove to our Com- 
mandant that it would be folly to attack the 
17 


230 


®l)e licbs of tl)e iUibi. 


King’s Castle; that the time had not yet 
come. 

He was full of all sorts of excuses, this 
Santerre, for putting off the attack. Nothing 
was ready for it; the cannon we were to carry 
off from in front of the Hotel de Ville were too 
strongly guarded to be taken; Mayor Petion 
had said that we must wait until the Assembly 
could come to a vote. Mayor Petion didn’t 
think that this was the right time to force the 
King — and so on, with this, that and the other, 
until it was enough to drive one wild. 

But in the end these peace-lovers carried 
the day against us, and it was settled that we 
should go along the Boulevard quietly to our 
barracks : and behold, then. Monsieur Santerre 
with his two hundred Parisians at the head of 
the procession — while we Marseillais marched 
along behind him meek as lambs! As for the 
crowd — the howling, roaring crowd that had 
followed us with fists and teeth ready for fight- 
ing — when those in it saw that there wasn’t to 
be any attack on the Castle they dropped away 
from us by tens and twenties : and so left us 
to go through the Aristocratic quarter alone. 
Then we knew that Santerre had tricked us. 

As we marched on we met only gilded car- 
riages and silk-curtained sedan-chairs in which 


In tl)e Strange Neuj €imea. 


231 


were fine court ladies in laces and furbelows, 
and powdered and pomatumed dandies in vel- 
vet coats and breeches, with silver-buckled 
shoes and with knots of ribbon at wrist and 
knee and wherever a knot of ribbon could be 
stuck on. These, we could see, were laugh- 
, ing and sneering at us; but Samat and Margan, 
who were not the sort to be laughed at by any 
such riff-raff of Aristocrats, stopped the coaches 
in a hurry and made the frightened porters put 
down the sedan-chairs — and then all those 
musk-scented dandies and mincing dames had 
to beg our pardon by kissing The Rights of 
Man! The poor things fairly shook in their 
shoes as they saw our glittering teeth, white 
as the fangs of the wolves on the Luberon, 
and our flashing eyes under dust-white brows. 
We made short work of them — pulling off their 
hats and their silk cockades and ordering them 
in our strong Provencal tongue, deep and mel- 
low as the roll of drums, to cry with us Vive 
la Nation ! It was good to see their shaking 
and trembling and their pinched disdainful faces 
as they joined in that Patriot shout. 

The people in this quarter of the town, far 
from welcoming us from doors and windows 
and balconies, hurried away from us into the 
depths of their houses and all the welcome we 


232 


QLi)c Eeb© of tl)e iHibi. 


got was the banging-to of shutters and the 
grating of bolts and bars. But welcome or no 
welcome, our drums rattled on and the chant 
of the “Marseillaise ” rang out on the air. 

At last, glowing with excitement, hoarse 
with shouting, and dripping with sweat, we 
came to our barracks; that stood in a puzzle 
of streets in the very middle of Paris. We 
found ourselves far off from the National As- 
sembly, far off from the King’s Castle, far off 
from everywhere. It was all the doings of that 
Santerre! Don’t talk to me about people who 
keep their feelings inside of them and who 
neither laugh nor cry ! 

Santerre started to make us a speech ; but 
he jabbered away in French, and we could not 
understand more than five words in ten. I 
think he was trying to tell us why we hadn’t 
gone straight to the Castle; and then he tried 
to smooth us down by saying that we were to 
have a feast offered to us that evening at the 
Champs Elysees. 

But here Margan caught him up short. 
“Mister Parisian,” said our big pockmarked 
Sergeant, “you must excuse me if I cut into 
your speech. 1 should like, if possible, to get 
into your head that we didn’t come all the way 
to Paris in order to string beads, nor did we 


In tl)e Strange Netn ®ime0. 233 


swallow two hundred leagues of blazing dust 
in order to end off with a spree. Down in 
Marseilles each one of us has his own little 
cabanon, his own quiet nook by the sea-side 
or on the hills, to which he can go for his sum- 
mer pleasure — taking along his' garlic and oil to 
make aioli, and the fish and saffron for his pot 
of bouillabaisse. We can do our junketting at 
home. I tell you squarely that all we came 
here for was to upset the King and save the 
country. We came for nothing else; and if 
you think you can take the taste of that out 
of our mouths by stuffing us with pastry, 
why ” 

But here Barbaroux broke in with : “ Hush, 
hush, friend Margan ! You are quite right — but 
listen to what Patriot Danton has to say, and 
you will see that we all are of one mind.” 

In a moment Danton had mounted on a 
table and had started off with a speech that 
went like a bugle-call ! He could talk for half 
an hour at a stretch and always say just the 
right thing. It was a great pity that he had to 
speak in French ; but even in French we could 
understand that he was speaking well. There 
was a man for you! He was not like Santerre! 
When he finished, while we were cheering 
him, Barbaroux flung himself into his arms 


234 


®l)e Eelrs of tlje iHiM. 


and they hugged and kissed before us all; and 
then they both promised us that within three 
days they would take us to the King’s Castle. 

While all this was going on, we had served 
out to us rations of wine and bread and ham, 
and we were mighty glad to get them. By 
that time it was two o’clock in the afternoon, 
and as we had not tasted a mouthful since be- 
fore sunrise we were as hungry as wolves. 

But what Vauclair and 1 most wanted was 
to hunt up Lazuli, and we made short work of 
our rations and hurried off. Our guns we left 
at the barracks, along with our bundles; but 
into our red taiolo, drawn tight about our 
waists, we stuck our pistols, and we carried 
also our swords. And then off we started for 
the house of Planchot the joiner in the blind 
alley close by the Bastille. 

The streets were still all topsy-turvy after 
our passage. But doors and windows were 
open again, and groups of people were stand- 
ing on the thresholds and at the crossways 
whispering among themselves. As we passed 
them they stopped their talk to turn around 
and stare hard at us; but we took no notice of 
them — beyond sticking our hands into our red 
sashes and holding fast our pistols all ready, 
should there be need for it, to draw and fire. 


Sn tl)e Strange Netn (Eimes. 235 


All this while 1 had not said anything to 
Vauclair about my having seen Mademoiselle 
Adeline with Lazuli. That sight had utterly 
bewildered me. I wondered if 1 really had 
seen her ? If, after all, she had not been a sort 
of vision that had come to me — begotten of 
my hunger and weariness and my excitement 
in the midst of the tremendous rushing and 
roaring of the crowd ? 

On we went, turning corner after corner and 
crossing little and big open spaces, and com- 
ing at last to the Impasse Guemenee without 
having had any adventures at all. As we stood 
outside the door we could hear the smooth 
“hush, hush” of a big plane as it threw off 
the long shavings; but the planing stopped 
short at our loud knock, and then the door flew 
open and there was Planchot himself. It was 
plain that he knew Vauclair on the instant; but 
instead of shaking hands and welcoming him 
he turned his back on us and rushed off like a 
crazy man shouting: “Vauclair! Vauclair! 
The good companion Vauclair!” 

A moment later we heard Lazuli, upstairs, 
screaming: “It is he! Clairet! Clairet! Come 
quick ! ” — and Clairet’s little voice crying : 
“Papa, Papa!” 

We met them on the staircase, and how 


236 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e ittibi. 


we all hugged and kissed! How sweet Lazu- 
li’s hearty kisses were, and how entrancing the 
feel around my neck of her dear arms! The 
blood rushed through my veins and my heart 
beat hard. 1 was no longer a child, but I was 
not yet enough of a man to understand why a 
kiss should so upset me: 

After a moment Lazuli exclaimed: “You 
haven’t seen us all yet The family has grown. 
Poor little Mademoiselle Adeline is with us — 
you remember her, Pascalet ? She saved you 
from wicked Surto’s claws. And now 1 believe 
I have saved her from death. She is very sad, 
poor child, but she has a good spirit of her 
own. 1 must tell you all about it I was so 
sorry for her on the trip from Avignon to Paris. 
It was she La Jacarasse was so rough to in the 
coach.” As she spoke. Lazuli opened the 
door, adding: “1 know, Vauclair, you will 
say as 1 do — when there is enough for three, 
there is enough for four.” 

It was lucky we had not far to go just then, 
for this news upset me more than all our long 
march in sun and rain and dust and wind. I, 
who had dragged at my cannon like a beast of 
burden and had thought nothing of it felt my 
strong legs give way on hearing the name of 
this young girl. There she stood, white as 


3 n tl)c Strange Ncto ®imc0. 237 


wax, her beautiful large soft eyes dim and 
sunken; and in an instant 1 had flung myself 
at her feet and was kissing her hand. She 
brought the past back to me. My village, our 
hut of La Garde, my mother, my father! It 
seemed as if in her flowing robe, in her soft 
laces, she bore the scent of the wild clematis and 
of the broom-flowers that bloomed far away in 
our lanes. The hand I was kissing was the same 
that had given me the bit of white bread ; the 
same that drew the bolts of the dungeon door 
at Avignon ! And — was it possible ? — she too 
was deeply moved. She took me in her 
arms and kissed me as Lazuli had done! Oh 
how utterly delicious it was! Suddenly I 
felt her delicate slender body yield and sway; 
and as I held her fast I saw that she had 
fainted. 

Lazuli caught her from me; and, as if she 
had been a little child, gathered her up in her 
arms, saying: Don’t be worried, it is nothing 
but a faintingfit; and no wonder, poor child! 
That journey was such an awful thing for her. 
She suffered and wept the whole length of it.” 
Still holding in her arms the sweet girl, who 
as she lay there, limp and helpless, looked like 
an armful of flowers, Lazuli disappeared into a 
little dark room — leaving us all upset and flus- 


238 


®l)e of tl]e ittibi. 


tered out in the kitchen to stand staring at each 
other. 

Just then we heard the clatter of old Plan- 
chot’s wooden shoes on the stair. He had 
come to greet Vauclair according to the rite 
and ceremonial of their craft. To make this 
greeting what it should be he had put on his 
Sunday hat and his best wig; and before he 
said a word he laid a square and a compass 
down between himself and Vauclair on the 
floor. At once Vauclair made the proper mo- 
tions of hand and foot, to which Planchot re- 
plied properly; and then, under their raised 
hands, they embraced over the quilibret; that 
is, the compass and square. 

“And how goes it with you, my Avignon- 
nais?” Planchot said. “And how goes it 
with you. La Liberte.^^” Vauclair answered. 
And then they went on with greeting after 
greeting, and never would have stopped at all 
had not Lazuli, her finger on her lip, come 
back to us. 

“It will be nothing serious,” she said; and 
as she turned to Planchot she added: “Our 
little girl has had a fainting fit. The crowd, 
the heat, the excitement of seeing her father, 
was too much for her. But she is better now. 
She soon will be all right.” 


In tl)e Strange Neto Slimes. 239 


“What a pity,’' said Planchot. “She is a 
delicate child. She is as pale as pine shavings.” 
And then, tapping Clairet’s cheeks, he went 
on: “Here’s a fine little man! You are not 
like your sister; you don’t get frightened when 
you see our Patriots, our Reds from the beauti- 
ful South, march by!” He turned to Lazuli, 
who was making signs to us to be quiet, and 
asked: “Wouldn’t you like a little orange- 
flower water for the child ? Speak right out if 
you would. We are all good Reds together, 
and everything in the house is yours. I 
wouldn’t talk that way if you were Aristos — 
those wretches who are only waiting for ^the 
Austrians and Germans to come to help them 
ruin the country and kill the Revolution. 
There is nothing for Aristos here — except pow- 
der and ball and the sharp edge of my axe! 
But I’ll leave you now. You need rest, and 
I’ve got more than enough work to do.” 

Planchot stopped his chattering and turned 
to leave the room — but took Vauclair with him 
to the threshold and whispered: “1 have an 
order for seven guillotines. I must have them 
ready for the Jacobins within the fortnight.” 
Then he left us, and we heard his sabots go 
clacking down the stairs. 

Lazuli pushed-to and fastened the door and 


240 


a:i)e Eebs of tl)e ittiM. 


brought out a bottle of muscatel and some bis- 
cuits; and then, seating herself at the the table 
as Close as she could get to us, she began to 
tell in a low voice how she had saved Adeline 
and had passed her off to Planchot as her own 
child. 

“You remember,” she said, “how at Sau- 
lieu 1 told you about the poor young girl who 
was travelling with La Jacarasse ? Well, just 
after you were called away by the drums, they 
came to take their places in the coach. La 
jacarasse was very drunk. She staggered 
every which way, and in getting into the 
coach she stumbled and fell sprawling — drop- 
ping her big bag, out of which fell her pig- 
killing knife. But she managed to climb in 
and take her seat; and after her came the poor 
young lady, blushing and ashamed and scarcely 
daring to call her soul her own. She was cry- 
ing, but trying to hold in her sobs like a child 
who is afraid of a whipping. In the coach we 
all looked at each other, shaking our heads; 
for, though no one spoke out about it, the 
sight went to our very hearts. And then I 
made up my mind that I was going to find out 
who that poor child was, and that I would 
do my best to rescue her. So I sat down 
beside her, in front of La Jacarasse — who fell 


In tl)e Strange Nero (Himes. 241 


asleep and snored away to the jolting of the 
coach. 

'‘Then in the dark I whispered in the girl’s 
ear: ‘My dear, what is the matter.^ You are 
crying. Tell me what hurts you, perhaps 1 can 
help you.’ 

“‘Thank you so much,’ she answered in 
a trembling whisper. ‘How kind you are! 
But there is nothing to be done for me. That 
woman will see the end of me. There is 
some plot against me that 1 can not under- 
stand. How could my mother have given me 
into such a creature’s hands ? It would have 
been better, had she sent me to Paris alone.’ 

“ ‘ Who are you, dear child ? Who is your 
mother ? ’ 

“ ‘1 am the daughter of the Marquis d’Am- 
brun. My name is Adeline. My father and 
my mother, with my brother Robert, started 
for Paris some time ago. They were in a great 
hurry to be off to help the King of France, who 
is in some sort of danger. 1 had had a dread- 
ful fright and was too. weak to go with them, 
and so they left me behind for this horrible 
woman to bring me to Paris in the first coach 
from Avignon. Oh, Great Saints! Oh, Holy 
Maries of the Sea! Shall 1 ever reach home 
alive! And even should 1 reach home ’ 


242 


®l)e trlebs of tl)e iHibi. 


“‘Should you reach home? Why, then 
you will be safe, of course. Your mother 
must love you so; must be so good to you.’ 

“ ‘It is not of my mother that I am most 
afraid, but of a wicked man, a German, who 
is our game-keeper. He and La Jacarasse have 
agreed between them to get rid of me, I am 
sure. They all are blind to that German’s 
wickedness; and the blindest is my mother. 
It is not long since she — who used to be so 
kind to me — threatened me with a blow be- 
cause I blamed him. I fear him even more 
than I do La Jacarasse. I am certain that the 
two have sworn my death. What can I do ? 
I pray God to take me soon to himself! ’ As 
she said this she began to sob and cry so piti- 
fully that I got to crying with her. It almost 
broke my heart. 

“Of course I knew the whole story as soon 
as she told me her name; and I made up my 
mind that I would risk anything to get this 
dear little girl, who had saved our Pascalet’s 
life, safe away from that wicked Surto and out 
of the claws of La jacarasse. Over on the seat 
in front of us the good-for-nothing beast of 
a Jacarasse siill was snoring; and so, draw- 
ing closer to the dear child, I whispered : ‘ I am 
nothing but a poor woman of the people, with 


In tl)c Strange Nero (Simes. 


243 


all my riches in my twenty nails. Yet 1 took 
little Pascalet into my home — the Pascalet from 
La Garde whon\ you saved alive out of the 
vault — and 1 will take you into my home too.’ 

“When I said this, the poor girl flung her- 
self on my neck and as she kissed me again 
and again she sobbed out: ‘Oh, save me! 
Save me 1 I will follow you anywhere to get 
away from that awful woman and her great 
knife that she threatens my life with when 
she is drunk.’ 

“‘Be careful, she is stirring. Now get it 
clear in your mind, my dear, that when we 
come to Paris and 1 get out of the coach you 
are to follow right behind, as if you were my 
daughter.’ 

“ ‘ I will do just what you tell me. I trust 
you because you were good to little Pascalet.’ 

“‘Hush! We must not talk any more 
now. Day is almost here and La Jacarasse is 
waking. Remember what I have told you. 
When we leave the coach do you follow me, 
that is all.’ 

“Just then La Jacarasse gave a tremendous 
yawn, and then began to stare around her with 
her half open piggish eyes as though she didn’t 
know where she was. 

“Mademoiselle Adeline no longer sobbed. 


244 


of tl)e illibi. 


Every now and then she glanced at me as 
much as to say : ‘ I know you will save me 
from that woman ! ’ — and 1, under our shawls, 
would give her hand a little squeeze. 

“The coach with its three horses abreast 
and a fourth ahead went at a good rate, stop- 
ping before the inns of the towns and villages 
we went through only long enough to leave 
the letters and to let La Jacarasse swallow a 
glass of wine or brandy. The nearer we drew 
to Paris the drunker she became, until at last 
she could hardly see the coach door when she 
got in. 

“ ‘So much the better for us,’ 1 whispered 
to the dear little girl. ‘ Let her drink like a 
sieve. The drunker she is the easier it will be 
to give her the slip.’ 

“ At one of our stops 1 got a chance to tell 
the coachman what 1 meant to do, and he was 
as kind as he could be about it — you saw at 
Saulieu what a nice a sort of man he was. ‘ 1 
like to see a good woman like you,’ he said. 
‘Of course I’ll help you all 1 can. Now listen. 
We stop in Paris before the inn of the Soleil 
d’Or. 1 will get La Jacarasse out of the coach 
first by taking her off to have a drink with me 
— and then do you and the young girl get away 
as fast as you can. Don’t bother about your 


Sn tl)e Strange JQ'euj ®itne0. 245 


baggage. I’ll look after it, and you can get it 
whenever you please.’ 

“Two days after the coachman and I had 
this talk we got to Paris. It was about night- 
fall when we came in, and almost dark when 
we stopped in front of the Soleil d’Or. The 
coachman gave me a wink as he opened the 
door and called out: ‘Who is going to stand 
treat to a glass of brandy ? ’ 

“‘lam! I am! ’ cried La Jacarasse, in her 
rough voice — and went stumbling across our 
feet and legs, dragging her nasty smelly bag 
after her, and lurched out through the coach 
door. The coachman kept her from falling by 
catching her under the arms and dumping her 
down on the pavement, and off they went for 
their drink. 

“That was our chance. I made a sign to 
the darling as I caught up Clairet in my arms, 
and to the wonder of everybody we got out 
and hurried off — leaving all our things behind 
us — and in ten steps we were lost and hidden 
in the crowd of' people coming and going on 
all sides. 

“Of course we didn’t know the way; but 
I had a tongue in my head and asked a man 
selling red, white and blue cockades how to 
find the Impasse Guemenee. ‘ It’s only two 
18 


246 


®l)e Bcba of tl)e iHibi. 


steps off,’ said he. ‘Turn the corner of the 
Place du Faubourg de Gloire into the Rue Saint- 
Antoine and follow your nose for no more than 
half a minute — and there you are. Vive la 
Nation ! Won’t you buy a cockade ? ’ 

“ Cockades indeed! That was no time for 
buying cockades! We started off as fast as 
we could go — giving a look back now and 
then to see if La Jacarasse was after us, though 
we did not feel much afraid of her; and in a 
very few minutes we found ourselves all hot 
and panting in the Impasse Guemenee and in 
front of Planchot’s door. It was Planchot him- 
self who opened the door to us; and when 1 
told him who 1 was and showed him Adeline 
and Clairet and said, ‘ Here are Vauclair’s chil- 
dren,’ he and his good wife Janetoun hugged 
and kissed us as if we were their very own. 
Nobody could have been kinder than they 
were. They got beds ready for us, they 
lighted the fire to get our supper, and in every 
way they treated us as if they had known us 
all their lives. We talked away to them of 
our South Country, and they asked a thousand 
questions about you and about the Marseilles 
Battalion; and so in a moment we were 
friends. But if I had told who Mademoiselle 
Adeline really was 1 am sure there would have 


In tl)e Strange ISicm iJimes. 


247 


been trouble; and I am sure that unless we 
keep our secret, and go on calling her our 
daughter, there will be trouble still.” 

“You have done exactly right,” said Vau- 
clair. “ 1 know Planchot all the way through, 
and better dough never went to the making of 
a man. He is kindness itself. He carries his 
heart in his hand. But if he knew that Made- 
moiselle Adeline was the daughter of a mar- 
quis, of a noble, who had come to fight for the 
King, he would be quite capable of turning her 
neck and crop out of doors. Not a word must 
be said about it — be sure, Pascalet, that you 
keep your tongue inside your teeth. If that 
girl went back to her family she would simply 
be going into the jaws of the wolf. It is clear 
that Surto and La Jacarasse and the Marquise 
understand each other like three pickpockets 
at a fair. Mark my words, the three of them 
have sworn the death of the Marquis d’Ambrun 
and of Count Robert and of Mademoiselle Ade- 
line. As to the Marquis and his son Robert, I 
don’t care a button what happens to them. 
Let them be hanged or have their throats cut — 
it is no more than they deserve. But we’ll save 
Adeline, or I’ll know the reason why ! ” 

“No, no, I won’t have it! I won’t have 
it!” cried Adeline, as she suddenly joined us. 


248 


Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


''Do you think I will let my father and my 
brother die without going to their rescue ? I 
heard what you said about them, and 1 know 
that Surto and La Jacarasse surely will try to 
strangle or stab them. I must go home to 
protect my people! Take me home — our 
house is near here in the Rue des Douze 
Fortes.” And then, turning from Vauclair, 
Adeline flung her arms so tightly around me 
that I scarcely could breathe and said implor- 
ingly: “Thou, Pascalet, thou canst not refuse 
me. Promise to take me home. Death is 
nothing to me if I can save my father and my 
brother!” 

“ Hush, hush, my dear little girl,” said Vau- 
clair. “ Remember, no one here must know 
who you are. We’ll save your father and 
we’ll save your brother, too; but you must 
be silent or we shall all be lost. Hark! I hear 
some one coming up the stairs! ” 

As for me, the touch of Adeline’s arms had 
so upset me that I scarcely knew what I was 
about. I cried in company with her, and kept 
saying: “Oh yes, yes, we’ll save them, and 
I’ll take you home! ” 

How strange that was! Who would ever 
have thought, when 1 left my village, that a day 
would come when 1 would consent to save 


Sn tl)e Strange Netx) ®imes. 249 


from death the Marquis d’Ambrun and, still 
more wonderful, his son Robert! Count Rob- 
ert who had nearly killed my father, beating him 
like a dog and leaving him for dead ; Count 
Robert who had shut me up to die of hunger 
in the vault! 

There was a knock at the door, and when 
Lazuli opened it there was Janetoun, Planchot’s 
wife, come up to greet us. Then came no 
end of hand shakings and how-de-does and 
how d’ye do again, and compliments too! 
' ‘ Oh, what fine handsome fellows ! ” cried Jane- 
toun. “That’s the kind of men we have in 
the South — they are not afraid of a long march ! 
They are not like these dried up Parisians who 
are neither fish, flesh nor fowl and can out-talk 
the wind. Like the dogs, they find a safe 
place and then bark from it. You won’t do 
like that! When you get hold of Capet, as 
they did last month, you’ll squeeze his neck 
for him — and serve him right too ! 

“And now I’ve a bit of news for you. It 
is arranged, you know, that you and your 
comrades of the Battalion are to be given a 
banquet to-night in the Champs Elysees. 
Well, the Aristocrats will be there and they 
will try to start a fight with you. They are 
arming for it now. But don’t you fight with 


250 


Ecbs of tlje Mibi. 


them. Tell your friends in the Battalion what 
is coming, and tell them to let the Aristocrats 
alone. Now I’ve warned you — and forewarned 
is forearmed ! ” 

“Janetoun is right in telling us,” said Vau- 
clair, “and we must be off. If things are as 
she says they are, we must be with the Bat- 
talion. Right about face, Pascalet! March! 
And as to any Aristocrats stopping us. I’d like 
to see them do it while two good watch dogs 
are by me, and 1 have this sharp walking-stick 
at my side! ” — and he touched as he spoke his 
pistols and his sword. “But tell me, Jane- 
toun,’* he added, “will that Santerre be there ? 
Do you know him ? ’* 

“You must not think 1 want to get rid of 
you,” said janetoun, lowering her voice; “but 
really 1 do think that to-night you ought all to 
be together. As for Santerre — well, you had 
better talk to Planchot about him ; he knows 
him, and knows how much he can be trusted.” 
And then, with her finger on her mouth, she 
whispered: “ 1 can tell you this, though — only 
last evening he was seen stealing out of the 
King’s Castle just at the edge of dark! ” 

Janetoun stopped for a moment, and then 
speaking in her natural voice, she went on: 
“ But don’t let what I’ve told you worry you. 


3 n tl)e Strange New dimes. 251 


As I said, forewarned is forearmed. We know 
here all that is going on. Planchot goes every 
evening to the Jacobin Club; and they are wide 
awake, those jacobins! It is they who have 
ordered the seven guillotines ! Y ou understand ? 
Well — a word to the wise, you know.” She 
suddenly turned, and as she ran down the 
stairs in a Jiffy, she called back to us: “I must 
melt the glue. The guillotines must be ready 
in a fortnight. There isn’t much time to 
spare! ” 

What is a guillotine, Vauclair, anyway ? ” 
I asked. 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Vauclair an- 
swered. “The Jacobins have ordered them — 
like enough they are seats or tables, for the 
club house.” 

“They’re a puzzle to me,” said Lazuli. “ i 
can’t make out what they are; but they cer- 
tainly are neither chairs nor tables. Come and 
see — we have one here in the little room. 
Planchot lent it to us to use as a bed for Ade- 
line.” 

We were as full of curiosity as so many 
children and we all went in together laughing 
to see the queer piece of furniture. What we 
saw, lying flat on the floor, was a sort of case 
or box, somewhere about three feet long and 


252 


®l)e Eebs of ti)e iHibi. 


half as wide, , from which started arms at least 
six feet long into each of which was cut a deep 
groove running its whole length. At the top 
the arms were held together by a solid cross^ 
piece, in the middle of which was a little 
pulley. 

“ I think,” said Lazuli, “that it is meant to 
stand up, with the two arms in the air. When 
we came here. Father Planchot had only one 
bed for the three of us; so he said that he 
would fetch one of his guillotines up stairs, and 
that we could make it into a bed for Adeline. 
You see, by laying it down this way and filling 
it well with shavings, it makes a very fair bed 
indeed. There is room enough for a child, or 
indeed for a grown person, in here between 
the arms.” 

While Lazuli was talking we were looking 
at the queer affair. Vauclair raised it and 
turned it over and looked at it carefully. But 
he ended by making a little puzzled sound, as 
much as to say: “Deuce take me if I can 
guess what the thing is for at all! ” 

And then I ventured to say that perhaps it 
was to be used in making triumphal arches or 
something of that sort, for some grand festival 
— such as the Fete-Dieu in Avignon. 

“You’ve hit it, 1 do believe,” said Vau- 


In tl)e Strange Neuj ^^imes. 253 


clair. “No doubt they are for some great 
festival of rejoicing. What geese we were 
not to see it right off.” And then we went 
back into the kitchen and began to get ready 
to leave. 

While we were tightening our red sashes 
Adeline once more threw her arms round my 
neck crying: “My Pascalet, you will surely 
come back to me, and surely will take me to 
my father’s house ? ” 

Vauclair saw how upset 1 was and answered 
for me. “Yes, dear little girl,” he said, “just 
as soon as we have taken the King’s Castle we 
will take you to your people, that I promise 
you. Then the Marseilles men will be the 
masters and will make laws for Paris. Surto 
and the wicked Jacarasse, when we find them, 
shall be shut up tight in prison so that no one 
will ever see them again. You must be a very 
good girl and let us leave you quietly now, 
and we will come back to-morrow. If you 
don’t keep very quiet La Jacarasse will find 
where you are hidden and will carry you off; 
and she, certainly, will not take you home.” 

As he spoke, Vauclair gently loosened her 
tightly clasped arms from about my neck ; and 
I, encouraged by Vauclair’s words, added: 
“ Yes, yes, we’ll take you home; and we will 


254 


®l)e Ecbs 0f tl)e iHibi. 


protect you, too, from that horrible Jac- 
arasse.” 

As she tried to thank me I closed her 
mouth with a kiss; and then Vauclair caught 
me by the hand and led me out of the room. 
As we went down stairs 1 heard Lazuli laugh- 
ing and saying: “Come, come, you will be a 
most unreasonable girl if you keep on crying 
after a kiss like that.” 

Oh, that kiss ! How 1 felt it thrilling through 
me! Though we were out in the big street 1 
neither saw people nor carriages coming and 
going. My cheeks felt as red as fire, my ears 
sang, my legs could hardly support me. Oh, 
how 1 longed to go back to the house to kiss 
Adeline once more and tell her all that 1 wanted 
to tell! But little by little my senses came 
back to me and my cheeks cooled down. After 
all, I wasn’t much more than a boy, and 1 was 
full of a boy’s curiosity. 1 stared at the peo- 
ple, the carriages, the sedan-chairs; 1 gaped at 
the painted and gilded signs, which were made 
in all sorts of fantastic shapes and swayed in 
the wind over the shop-keepers’ doors. By the 
time that we reached the Place de la Bastille — 
or, as they called it then the Faubourg de la 
Gloire — 1 was quite myself again. In the 
morning we had seen the ruins of the strong- 


Jn tl)e Strange ^^etu ^imea. 


255 


hold crowded with people; but without the 
people it took even more of a hold on me. It 
seemed as if it had been tumbled down by an 
earthquake. When we had walked all round 
it, looking at it from every side, we went into 
the Soleil d’Or — where the Avignon coach had 
stopped, and where the coachman had given 
Adeline and Lazuli their chance to run away 
from La Jacarasse. 

In this inn I saw a queer thing that bothered 
me a great deal. There hung from the ceiling 
two big figures stuffed with straw, just like 
the “ Carmentrans ” we parade around on 
Shrove Tuesday. They were dressed up in 
paper — one as a general of the army, the other 
as a crowned lady. 

Don’t you know what those are?” Vau- 
clair asked. “ Well, I’ll tell you. The general is 
Lafayette, and the fine lady is the Queen. Every 
evening the Patriots of the quarter, who hold 
their meetings here, carry those two figures 
up to the highest window in the house. And 
then — kerflop ! and down they go on the pave- 
ment to the shouts of the people, who join 
hands and dance around them to the tune of 
‘^a ira.’ All of which means that some day 
in the King’s Castle we will do the same 
thing!” 


256 


®l)e Bcbs of tl)e iHibi. 


When we came out of the Soleil d’Or, we 
turned down and went along the banks of the 
Seine, a river that flows through Paris. It is 
not near as wide as the Rhone, and is very 
dirty. The water is so foul that it looks like 
the last skimming of olive-oil or the drainings 
of a stable-yard; and, compared with our 
Rhone, it flows along so slowly that it is hard 
to tell which way it goes. 

The sun was almost down as we passed in 
front of the Hotel de Ville; and had set by the 
time we reached the Champs Elysees — where 
we found all the men of the Battalion with the 
Paris folks who were giving us our feast. The 
table was spread in a cabaret called the Grand 
Salon; and it truly was a grand salon, I can 
tell you, for there was room in it for five hun- 
dred men. 

The gardens of the Champs Elysees were 
crowded with people, some shouting “Vive la 
Nation!” others, the Anti-Patriots: “Vive le 
Roi!” and “Vive la Reine!” Next door to 
the Grand Salon was a cabaret in which an- 
other festival was going on; and this other 
festival had been started by some of the sprigs 
of the nobility — who, as well as their serving- 
men, were dressed up as National Guards. 
Nice National Guardsmen they were! They 


Jfn Strange NetD STitnes. 257 


were the King’s dogs; and they had come on 
purpose to make a disturbance and so to pick 
a quarrel with us. Well, they got what they 
came for — and also something they didn’t come 
for, as you will see! 

We were no more than seated at our table, 
with Santerre to preside over us, than this 
Royalist rabble, right under our windows, be- 
gan to sing songs in honour of the tyrant and 
of his Austrian Queen. We let them go on, 
but soon the good Patriots of those parts took 
the matter up and began calling out: “Down 
with the foreigners!” “Down with Cob- 
lentz!” “Down with the Austrian!” — and 
at this the cowards drew their swords and 
shamefully fell upon the women and children. 
That was the kind of fighting that suited them, 
but it did not suit us! “ Help, Patriots, help! ” 
the women shrieked. And then : “ Help, Mar- 
seillais ! ” 

We would have had snails’ blood in our 
veins had not our hearts sprung up in answer 
to that cry. In spite of Santerre — who tried 
to quiet us by calling out: “It is nothing, 
nothing at all. Stay in your places ” — we all 
were on our feet in a moment. Some of us 
ran out at the door, some jumped out of the 
windows; all of us with drawn swords and 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iltiM. 


258 


pistols, and all as eager as wolves ! But when 
the Aristos caught sight of us, instead of stay- 
ing to fight, off they ran like rabbits — some of 
the hindmost being spurred on by the toes 
of our boots as well as by the points of our 
swords. They all made for the drawbridge 
of the King’s Castle, while we burst out laugh- 
ing at seeing them run away before they were 
hurt 

One big fat fellow fell head foremost into a 
mud-puddle. 1 was sorry for him and helped 
him up; and when he was on his feet I found 
that he was so tall that my head was not much 
above the level of his fat stomach. All the 
same, 1 put the point of my sword to his big 
paunch and cried: “Shout ‘Vive la Nation!’ 
— or in it goes! ” 

All covered with mud as he was, he made 
an awful face at me and answered: “I am 
Count Moreau de Saint-Merri ! ” 

“The deuce I care who you are,” I an- 
swered. “Shout ‘Vive la Nation’ or the 
point of my sword will make a new button- 
hole in your breeches! ” 

“Vive la Nation ! Vive la Nation ! ” shouted 
he — and then 1 let him run off to the Castle. 

As we were on our way back to the table 
in the Grand Salon we saw marching up from 


In tl)e Strange Nenj illimes. 259 


the other end of the Champs Elysees a com- 
pany of Anti-Patriot National Guards, who 
were coming to support the lot we had just 
driven off. One of these, an officer with silver 
epaulettes, aimed at a Federal and fired; but 
his pistol flashed in the pan. Instantly the 
Federal turned around and blew out his brains. 
The Aristocrats, seeing their officer killed, 
broke in disorder and fled. This time we did 
not pretend to stab; we stabbed in earnest. 
The slowest and the timidest cried for quarter, 
and at the end we found ourselves with about 
a dozen prisoners in hand. Santerre joined us, 
and for once was earnest enough. He begged 
and implored us to let our prisoners go. He 
said he would answer for them himself; that 
they really were on our side; that they were 
our brothers, but had been tricked into acting 
against us. He talked and talked so in his 
French jargon that he finished by making us 
do what he wanted. 

Our feast was all spoiled. But we carried 
off the food to our barracks in the Rue Mira- 
beau le Patriote, and there we spent what was 
left of our evening quietly — eating, drinking and 
singing as if we had been at home down in 
the South. Barbaroux and Danton joined us 
there, and comforted us by promising that in 


26 o 


of tl)e ittibi. 


not less than three days we certainly should at- 
tack the Castle. 

“If the Assembly and the National Guard 
won't act,” they said to us, “we will take 
matters into our own hands. We will put 
down the tyrant and save the country all by 
ourselves.” Santerre, who had come with 
them, could not say no to this; and he prom- 
ised that in three days his men would march 
with us to the attack. 

Then we stretched ourselves out on the stone 
floor and slept there for the rest of the night 
like logs ; and the next day we were up at cock 
crow and off to see the town. 

Nobody stayed in the barracks but the men 
on guard. Some of us went to take a good 
look at the King’s Castle, and at the bridges 
and streets and alleys leading to it. Others 
went to the National Assembly to hear what 
they were chattering about in that place ; others 
were satisfied to stare openmouthed at the 
dancing bears and into the shop windows, 
until you might have thought they had just 
landed from Martigues! Vauclair and I, of 
course, made straight for the Impasse Gue- 
menee to see our dear people. 

As we entered the workshop, Planchot 
drew Vauclair aside, and with a very mysteri- 


Jfn tl)e Strange New Climes. 261 


ous air whispered in his ear: “The Jacobins 
have just ordered another seven guillotines. 
That makes fourteen. I am counting on your 
help. Fourteen guillotines to be ready in a 
fortnight ! I never can get through a piece of 
work like that alone.” 

“Surely, surely, brother Planchot,” Vau- 
clair answered. “Of course I’ll help you. 
That’s what I’m here for. And isn’t it for the 
good of the Revolution, too ? just wait while 
I run up stairs to say good-day to my wife and 
children, and then I’ll put on my apron and 
take hold of my plane.” 

Lazuli and the others had heard Vau- 
clair’s voice and they all came running 
down stairs. Lazuli kissed Vauclair, and 
Adeline put her arms round my neck and 
kissed me. And then there was a fire of ques- 
tions. 

“Has all gone well.?^” “Is the King’s 
Castle taken “ Is any one dead ?” 

“ No, ” we answered. “We haven’t taken 
the Castle; we haven’t even seen the King. 
It will be for to-morrow, or the day after to- 
morrow.” 

Old Planchot, his hands folded under his 
apron, kept grinning at our hugging and kiss- 
ing and finally said: “Look here, Vauclair, it 
19 


262 


®I)e Uebs of tl)e Mihi, 


seems to me these young people are on mighty 
good terms with each other! ” 

“ When the affairs of the nation are all set' 
tied, brother Planchot,” said Lazuli, laughing, 
“we’ll have a wedding. We’ll marry them in 
front of the Liberty Tree.” 

As Adeline heard these words she remem- 
bered her training as a well brought up young 
lady and blushed furiously, while her eyes filled 
with tears. Unclasping her arms from about 
my neck, she covered her face with her hands. 

To make things easier for her, 1 acted as if 
nothing had happened. Taking off my sword 
and pistols and my fine National Guard coat, I 
rolled my shirt sleeves up to my elbows and 
said to Planchot: “You want help. Here I 
am all ready to help. What shall I do ? ” 
“Now that’s the sort of boy 1 like,” said 
Planchot, slapping me on the shoulder. “Well, 
take this plane, and square the arms for the 
guillotines. Do it carefully. See, you are to 
plane down to the black mark. There is 
enough here to keep you going for a week. 

“ As for you, Vauclair,” Planchot went on, 
“you are a master- workman and I’ll give you 
some of the finer work to do. You will make 
the mortises in the lower blocks and chisel out 
the long grooves the whole length of the arms. 


In tl)e Strange Nero iJimes. 263 


Those grooves must be as straight and true as 
the lines on music paper/' 

“And can't we help too?" asked Lazuli 
and Adeline and Clairet all together. 

“ Yes, yes," Planchot answered. “ There’s 
work for us all. You can sweep away the 
shavings and hand us our tools, and you can 
melt the glue — and among us we’ll have such 
guillotines as never were seen ! " 

1 started in and planed away like a good 
one. Soon the floor beside me was covered 
with shavings — some long, some short, some 
delicate and shining like silk ribbon — all twist- 
ing and curling together like Adeline’s pretty 
hair. The pine wood with its sharp sweet 
fresh smell made me feel almost as if I were 
once more in the pine forests up in my own 
mountains at Malemort. Close by my bench 
Clairet and Adeline played in the shavings; and 
whenever I asked for the straight-edge or the 
square Adeline hurried to get it for me. 

“Master Planchot," said Adeline, “ we all 
will go to the Feast of the Guillotines, won’t 
we ? Where is it to be ? " 

Planchot opened wide his eyes, and for a 
moment shut his jaws together so that his nose 
almost touched his chin, as he answered: 
“Yes, I’ll take you all there, and you shall see 


264 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e Mibi. 


how we’ll use them. That will be a gay festi- 
val. Nothing like it has ever been seen.” 

That was enough for us; we all were 
sure then that those things were to be used as 
triumphal arches for the festival that was to 
take place after we had captured the King’s 
Castle. 

“Father Planchot, will there be farandoles 
at the Guillotine Feast?” asked Clairet one 
day. 

“Oh yes, yes, fine farandoles,” said Plan- 
chot, winking at Vauclair and me. 

“And will there be wreaths of box and 
lovely flowers twined all around the side- 
pieces of the guillotines ? ” asked Adeline. 

“Oh yes, yes, plenty of flowers — and all 
of them red,” Planchot answered. 

Vauclair and 1 asked no questions. We 
did not want Planchot to see that we did not 
really understand how the guillotines were to 
be used. 

“Master Planchot,” Adeline went on, 
“please lend me your pencil. 1 want to put 
my name on the guillotine that 1 am using as 
a bed. Perhaps 1 will know it again on the 
day of the feast.” 

Our littie lady was the only one of us who 
knew how to write, and when she had fin- 


Jfn tl)e Strange Nenj ^intes. 265 


ished her fine performance we all went to look 
at it. On the upper cross-piece, beside the 
little pulley, she had written in big letters : 

ADELINE 

Oh that name 1 It is more than sixty years 
ago that she wrote it there — yet to-day I see it 
as plainly as 1 saw it then ! 

We sawed and planed and worked together 
steadily for eight days. Every evening Vauclair 
and 1 went back to the barracks to sleep, and 
every morning early we came again to Father 
Planchof s ; when the first questions would be 
as we crossed the threshold: “ Have you taken 
the King’s Castle ? How many were killed ?” 

But our answer had to be always the same: 
‘'No, we haven’t taken it yet.” 

We were beginning to think that we never 
would take it. Sometimes it was Santerre 
who stopped us by declaring that he was ill 
and we must wait for him to get well again ; 
sometimes it was Petion, the Mayor of Paris, 
who stopped us by pulling a long face and 
saying mysteriously: “We must wait or all 
will be lost. It is not the right moment”; 
sometimes it was the National Assembly that 
chimed in with: “Yes, you must wait, or 
something will go wrong! ” 


266 


®l)e Ecb0 of tl)c iHiM. 


At last one day our pockmarked Margan 
stood up in the gallery of the Assembly and 
shook his fist in the face of all the deputies as he 
cried out: “You are all afraid. You sit there 
shaking like reeds. You always are fearful that 
something will or won’t happen. And while 
you talk, we wait — we the Patriots, the Reds of 
the Midi who have tramped through the heat 
of the sun and the chill of the night our two 
hundred leagues ; we to whom you have not 
allowed even enough mouldy bread to keep 
our bellies from crying hunger! Shall 1 tell 
you what we think of you? We think you 
are cowards! All we fear is your fear! Our 
only dread is that if we wait for you to start 
the Revolution there never will be any Revolu- 
tion at all! ” 

But Margan’s speech did no good; and we 
of the Battalion were wearied and over wearied 
by our waiting for the signal to start. And as 
we lost heart the Aristocrats gained heart. 
They saw that nothing happened, and they 
began to pluck up their courage once more. 
The time-serving shop-keepers, the money- 
makers, painted fleurs-de-lys on their signs, 
and stuck up for mottoes over their doors “A 
fig for the Nation!” or “Vive la Reine!” or 
“Vive le Roi!” And all this while swords 


In tlje Strange (Jimes. 267 


and guns and pistols, with plenty of balls and 
powder, were carried into the King’s Castle 
by the Royalist dogs who freely went and 
came — while we were stuck fast like so many 
posts planted in the ground ! 

That sort of thing could not be allowed to 
go on. We raised our voices so loud that at 
last we made ourselves heard. We swore 
that if the others held back, and if leaders 
were denied to us, we would march without 
leaders on the King’s Castle and would take it 
alone. Then Barbaroux and Danton came to 
our help. They talked with the Federals from 
Brest, and with the true Patriots, the true Revo- 
lutionists, of the National Guard; and among 
them they arranged that our quarters should be 
shifted across the river to the building that had 
been the convent of the Cordeliers — where the 
Patriot Club used to meet — because from there 
we could march on the Castle easily. Danton 
himself came to lead us to our new barracks, 
and as he served out cartridges to us he 
shouted: ''Liberty, Equality, Fraternity — or 
Death ! ” 

At the Cordeliers we found Barbaroux wait- 
ing for us, and he made us a speech that set 
all our hearts to beating with joy. " To-mor- 
row,” he cried, "the fight that you have been 


268 


Eebs of tl)e iHiM. 


longing for shall be fought. In spite of all 
Paris; in spite of the National Assembly; in 
spite of Petion (of that Petion who boasted 
that he would march you out of the city in no 
time if the Assembly would but make him a 
grant of seven thousand crowns) ; in spite of 
them all, 1 say, and in spite of all the gods in 
heaven and all the devils in hell, the tocsin 
shall ring to-morrow night — and by the morn- 
ing we all will be dead or the King’s Castle 
will be ours! ” 

That time there was no trickery. The next 
day all Paris was in a ferment — while we worked 
on at the guillotines. We knew that we should 
not be wanted before evening, and the last of 
the fourteen was almost done. Early in the 
afternoon we finished it and threw down our 
planes. 

“All they need now,” said Planchot, rub- 
bing his hands, “ is the razor of Equality. But 
that is another man’s affair. Tis no part of a 
carpenter’s business to shave! ” 

That last day’s work was the hardest oi 
all. Everybody knew that there was thunder 
in the air. From early morning the streets 
had been crowded: heavy covered wagons 
trundled along mysteriously; the King’s 
mounted gendarmes clattered hither and thither 


In tl)e Strange Nm ^imes. 269 


at a gallop ; in all the quarters the drummers 
were beating the assembly on a hundred 
drums. 

Lazuli and Adeline understood that at 
last the fight was coming in earnest. They 
spoke little. Without asking for orders they 
loaded our pistols, and then they turned to 
Father Planchof s grind-stone and fell to sharp- 
ening our swords. But when the time came 
for leaving them they fairly broke down. Oh, 
how they cried, and how they begged us to 
take care of ourselves and of each other! 

“You needn’t either of you be in the very 
first rank.” 

“If you should get the smallest hurt, come 
right back home.” 

“ Vauclair, listen. Take good care of Pas- 
calet; and you, Pascalet, don’t leave Vauclair’s 
side.” 

And then more kisses and more tears. At 
the last Adeline said to me: “If you see my 
brother or my father, promise me that you 
will not hurt them.” And 1, carried away by 
her kisses, answered : “1 will not. 1 give you 
my word! ” 

While we were in the thick of our good- 
byes Planchot had left us and had gone up 
stairs to his bed-room. Suddenly he appeared 


270 


®l)e EcZ^s of tlie iHibi. 


among us again, dressed in his uniform of the 
Paris National Guard — and a great-looking ob- 
ject he was! He was a little bit of a man, 
with a hooked nose like an owl’s beak, a 
pointed chin, and not a tooth in his head. 
Like all old carpenters, his right shoulder was 
higher than his left. What with his cocked 
hat too big for him, his coat too long for him, 
and his spindle legs, he was a regular Punch! 

Janetoun came clattering down the stairs 
after him and burst into the room at his heels 
crying: “Thou shalt not go! I say thou shalt 
not go! They can get along without thee — 
thou art too old to fight. Leave fighting to 
the young folks. Thou wilt be killed by every- 
body! The very horses will trample thee 
down! Tell him, Vauclair, to stay at home. 
He only will be in your way. Why, his 
sword is longer than he is — he can’t draw it 
out of the scabbard! Listen to reason, my 
own Planchot; listen to reason, and stay here 
with me! ” 

But Planchot wouldn’t listen to reason; 
and he answered her in French, speaking with 
his strong Southern accent : “La revoluchion, il 
nous appelle, nous vaincrons ou nous mour- 
rissons!” (“The Revolution calls us. We 
conquer or die! ”) 


In tl)e Strange Netn Qlimes. 271 


“That is all very well,” said Janetoun; 
“but what am 1 to do if you have an arm cut. 
off or a leg shot to pieces ? ” 

“La libarte ou la mort! Passe-moi mon 
ache que z’ai aguisee pour tranca lou cou du 
tyran!” (“Liberty or Death! Give me my 
axe. I have sharpened it so as to cut off the 
tyrant’s head! ”) 

Janetoun had lived a good while in the 
world and she knew there was more than one 
way of catching martins. When she. found 
that talking to her man did no good she tried 
another tack — all of a sudden giving an awful 
scream and striking her hands together and 
going down on a heap of shavings in a bunch. 

Planchot stopped talking bad French and 
shouted in honest Provencal: “Heavens and 
earth, my wife has fainted! Quick, get the 
vinegar! ” 

Lazuli and Adeline rushed up stairs for the 
vinegar and orange-flower water, and the mo- 
ment they were gone Vauclair and 1 nodded 
to each other — and off we went without more 
ado. 

Once in the street we had no chance to 
think of those we had left behind us. In an 
instant we were in the thick of a pushing, 
crushing crowd. We got ahead as we could, 


272 


®l)e Eebs of ll)e iHiM. 


often being forced back two steps for one step 
that we had gained — as a squadron of gen- 
darmes crushed their way through the press, or 
a band of Aristocrats came along roaring: 
“Death to the brigands!” or a company of 
Patriots crying: “Vive la Nation!” Some 
carried red flags, some black ; we even saw a 
bullock’s heart, all bleeding, carried high on 
the point of a pike. Women with their hair 
hanging loose over their shoulders were pushing 
this way and that, while above their heads 
they waved their bare arms. Barefooted men 
were strutting along brandishing rusty pikes 
and nicked swords and crazy old guns. Even 
the children were flourishing everything they 
could lay hands on that looked like a weapon. 
And from all the Patriot throats would come 
storming forth from time to time the Patriot 
song: 


Dansons la Carmagnole, 
Vive le son, vive le son, 

Dansons la Carmagnole, 
Vive le son du canon! 


Dance we the Carmagnole! 
Hurrah for the roar! Hurrah 
for the roar ! 

Dance we the Carmagnole! 
Hurrah for the roar the can' 
non roar! 


As we worked our way along toward the 
King’s Castle there went by a company of 
Royalist regulars — all pomaded and be-pow- 


In tl)e Strange Netn (Jimeo. 273 


dered and be-curled, wearing silk stockings 
with buckled garters, and with swords and 
pistols all bright and shining in the sun. They 
carried a banner of blue and white, the King's 
colours, on which was written: “Hurrah for 
the Austrian and Prussian armies who will en- 
ter Paris victorious! and as they marched on 
toward the Castle they sang the Anti-Patriot 
version of our “ ^a ira ” : 


Ah! fa ira! fa ira! 

De mal en bien tout change 
en France! 

Ah! fa ira! fa ira! 

Car c’est Louis qui regnera. 
Antoinette I’on cherira, 

Et les Jacobins Ton pendra! 


Oh, all goes well! Oh, all 
goes well ! 

From bad to good all France 
doth turn! 

Oh, all goes well! Oh, all 
goes well ! 

For Louis will reign over us 

And Antoinette will cher- 
ished be 

While the Jacobins shall 
hang! 


As the singing soldiers passed on toward 
the Castle the sun was setting — down the line 
of the Seine — in a burning blood-red glow. 
From close to us down far away to where 
clouds and earth came together, everything 
touched by the sunrays — spires, domes, the 
tall houses and the walls of the Castle — was 
blood-red. The river seemed running with 
flaming blood — that looked still redder and 


274 


Ql\)c Hebs of tl)e illibi. 


brighter because of the piers and arches of the 
bridges which made black splotches against 
its crimson glow. 

We stopped for a moment to look at this 
strange sight; and as we went on again Vau- 
clair said, very seriously: “That means that 
there will be a great killing of men! ” 

It was almost dark when we got back to 
our barracks in the Cordeliers ; and there we 
found Barbaroux and Danton and Rebecqui 
talking away — while they strode backwards 
and forwards in the courtyard — to a group of 
Federals who evidently had been saying that 
they dreaded more of Santerre’s tricks and de- 
lays. 

“1 tell you,” cried Barbaroux, “that this 
time Santerre surely will come — or his days of 
coming and going on this earth surely will’ 
end. Look here! ” (as he spoke he unbuttoned 
his coat and threw it open) “Look here! You 
always have seen two pistols stuck in my sash. 
Now there are none. And this is what has 
gone with them. 1 gave one of them to a Pa- 
triot whom 1 can trust as 1 trust myself, and I 
said to him : ‘ You know Mandat, the Comman- 
dant-General of the National Guard of Paris 
Well, follow him by day and by night — and if 
he dares to turn his men against the troops of 


3 n t\)c Strange Nero ®imes. 275 


the Revolution take this pistol and blow out his 
brains. So will you serve the cause of our 
country and of Liberty ! ’ And that good Pa- 
triot, answering me, said: ‘I swear that you 
shall cut off my head if I fail to obey you ! ’ 

‘'And the other pistol I gave to another 
good Patriot, and I said to him: ‘You know 
Commandant Santerre ! Well, follow him by 
day and by night— and when the drums beat 
the assembly and the tocsin rings if you do not 
find him at the head of his men coming to join 
the troops of the Revolution take this pistol 
and blow out his brains. So will you serve 
well the cause of our country and of Liber- 
ty ! ’ And that good Patriot, answering me, 
said : ‘ I swear that you shall cut off my head 
if I fail to obey you! ’ 

“And so, you see,” Barbaroux went on, 

‘ ‘ those two are provided for. One other man is 
left who may play us false, and that is Petion, 
the Mayor of Paris. But he also is provided 
for. At this moment fifty tried and faithful 
jacobins have Petion shut up in the Hotel de 
Ville; and they will neither let him go out nor 
let him speak to any one until the Castle is 
taken and the King and Queen are our pris- 
oners.” 

Before Barbaroux had finished, Margan, 


276 


(2[l)e Bcbs of tl)e iUibi. 


gun in hand, jumped up on the table beside 
him and shouted : “ What do we care whether 
or not the Parisians will march ? When did 
they ever do anything for the cause of Liberty ? 
For near a fortnight we’ve been waiting here 
like a pack of gaping idiots. These Parisians, 
every one of them, have chicken-hearts. They 
called for help; they called to us to come up 
and help them— and now they are afraid of us ! 
And they are right to be afraid of us, for we 
will crush them if they stand in our way. We 
are come from Marseilles, from Toulon, from 
Avignon, from all over the hot South, to save 
the Country and proclaim the Revolution. 
We’ll do it! God’s own thunder won’t stop 
us! We’ll march in spite of Paris! If we 
must, we’ll march against Paris! — and we’ll 
rush to the assault shouting ‘ Death or Lib- 
erty ! ’ ” 

“Well said, Margan! Well said!” cried 
Samat, as he sprang up on a table and waved 
his banner of The Rights of Man — while all of 
us, shouting together, filled the courtyard with 
an angry roar. 

Another Marseillais made himself heard: 
“In the National Assembly,” he cried, “they 
are all cowards! Petion, this Mayor of Paris, 
is a traitor. It was he who said, ‘Give me 


In tl)e Strange ^cxo crimes. 277 


seven thousand crowns, and Til get rid of the 
Marseillais.’ Tell him to come here with his 
seven thousand crowns! Are we a herd of 
pigs and is he our herdsman, that he dare to 
say we are for sale ? We must give this 
traitor Parisian the lie. Here is my pistol — and 
I swear that if the Marseilles Battalion doesn’t 
march to the assault before day comes 1, 1 who 
am speaking to you, will blow my brains out 
that I may not die of shame! ” 

“ He’s right, the Patriot’s right! ” called out 
one of our men who stood in a far corner and 
who hammered with his sword upon a table 
until he made himself heard. “He’s right. 
With us it must be Death or Liberty! Not one 
of us ever will go back into the South again 
until we have thrown down the tyrant and 
brought Paris to reason. What are these 
Parisians, any way ? When we are off in our 
far provinces they look down on us ; they cry 
out at us for dregs and starvelings ; they sneer 
at us because we don’t talk through our noses 
with their own duck- quacking ‘couin! couin! 
couin ! ’ But now that we are here, and they 
see us, they tremble! We must show them 
who we are and what we can do. So far, 
they have only barked from a long way off. 
If they come nearer, showing their teeth; it 
20 


278 


®l)e ticbs of tl]e iHiM. 


they try to stop us in our good work — then 
will we quiet their nose-talking once and for 
all!" 

We all believed that there was good reason 
for these bitter words against the Parisians, 
and at each one of them we cheered and 
cheered. For the whisper had gone around 
that the National Assembly was trying to find 
some excuse for sending our Battalion packing 
out of the Capital; and we also had been told 
that the National Guard of Paris, instead of 
joining us, would fight against us in defence of 
the King. But Danton, the good Jacobin, 
knew better; and presently he was up again 
on a table and making a speech to us in which 
the whole matter was set right and clear. Ah, 
he was a man! He spoke French, and we 
couldn’t understand all his words; but we 
understood all his thought. 

He began by telling us, shortly, that who- 
ever said all the Parisians would be against us 
lied ; and then he told us very clearly and care- 
fully how the attack on the King’s Castle was 
to be made. The battalions of the Faubourg 
de Gloire, he said, were to march to the Place 
du Carrousel (as they called the open space in 
front of the Castle) by way of the Place de la 
Greve and the Arcade Saint-jean; the bat- 


Sn tl)e Strange Nero Climes. 


279 


talions of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau were to 
come up to the Horse Market, and from there 
were to follow the river and cross it by the 
Poht-Neuf; and we, the Marseillais, with the 
Federals from Brest and the students from the 
schools, were to cross the river by the Pont- 
Saint-Michel and enter the Place du Carrousel 
through the galleries of the Louvre. It was a 
plan, he said, that had been carefully thought 
out and that promised well; and all the forces 
pledged to take part in it could be trusted to 
the death. For the signal of attack, he said 
finally, an alarm-cannon would be fired on the 
Pont-Neuf and the tocsin would ring from all 
the church towers — and then the good fight 
would begin ! 

Our eyes filled with tears as we listened to 
him, and while those who were nearest to him 
embraced his knees we all cried together: 

God grant that your good words be true! ” 

The night had run onward while all this 
talk went on. It was late — within an hour of 
midnight. We remembered that we were 
hungry, and fell to eating our rations of garlic 
and dry bread. Suddenly a shot was fired in 
the street almost at the door of our barracks. 
In an instant we had seized our arms and were 
filing out in line. Our Commandant and Bar- 


28 o 


Qi[]c Heirs of tl)e ittibi. 


baroux and Danton tried to hold us back. The 
drums had not yet beaten the assembly, the 
time to march had not yet come, they shouted 
— but our own drummers already were beating 
the quick-step, and in spite of all they could 
say we were off. Feeling our cartridges, to 
make sure that they were in order, away we 
went through the dark streets as silently as a 
flock of sheep; keeping time with our footsteps 
to the quick rattle of our drums. 

My mouth was dry. I chewed and chewed 
away at a bit of bread, but could no more 
swallow it than if my throat had been held 
close by an iron band. I was all of a tremble, 
just as if I had a fever; and I was shaking 
with an excitement I could not understand. 
It was about midnight when we came out of 
the tangle of narrow streets through which we 
had been marching upon the wide way beside 
the river. The weather was soft and warm ; 
the stars shone brightly in a clear sky; on the 
bridges and along both banks of the river rows 
of lanterns were swinging in the wind. 

But there beside the quiet river we struck 
upon such a tremendous crowd and such a 
whirl of confusion that it seemed as though 
we had got to the very end of the world. All 
the bridges were held by Anti-Patriot soldiery. 


Sn tl)c Strange New Climes. 281 


Mounted gendarmes were galloping backwards 
and forwards, making the crowd cry out and 
reel and surge in angry waves. In one mo- 
ment we would hear a bugle-call, in the next 
the roll of drums. From the other side of the 
river came the clatter of troops of horse and 
the rumbling of gun-carriages. Everywhere 
there was a dull roar made up of the shoutings 
of thousands and thousands of voices, with 
now and then a clear cry rising sharply of 
“Vive la Nation!” or “Vive le Roil” And 
all the while that we were pushing our way 
slowly through the crowd we could see loom- 
ing high before us — rising up like the crags of 
the Luberon — the black mass of the King’s 
Castle outlined against the sky. 

Our orders were to cross by the Pont-Saint- 
Michel; but our leading files halted as they 
came to the bridge and our drums stopped 
beating. We all pushed and crowded to 
the front to see what was the matter; and 
we found that Commandant Moisson had 
gone forward alone and was talking with 
the commander of the detachment of Anti- 
Patriots by whom the bridge was held. Pres- 
ently he came back to us, saying that the guard 
on the bridge had orders to let no one pass — a 
piece of news that set us to stamping with 


202 


2^1}e Eebs of tl)e ilXibi. 


anger, until the good thought occurred to us 
to bring up our cannon and clear a passage 
with a dose of grape. 

“Steady, men!” called out our Comman- 
dant. “Steady! We mustn’t spoil things by 
going too fast. We have our orders, and we 
must obey them. Not a shot must be fired 
until the alarm-cannon gives the signal that 
the work is to begin.” 

“ And where is this alarm-cannon ?” asked 
Margan; who hardly could speak plainly, he 
was in such a towering rage. 

“It’s on the Pont-Neuf,” answered our 
Commandant; “and the bad luck is that it is 
in the hands of the Anti-Patriots.” 

“If that’s all,” said Margan, “ I’ll start the 
attack in no time. Anti-Patriots or no Anti- 
Patriots, I’ll fire that gun ! ” 

“Silence!” cried the Commandant. 
“Trust yourselves to me, men. I promise 
you that we’ll cross at the hour settled on, and 
that you shall be in the tyrant’s house ahead of 
them all.” 

But no silence followed the Commandant’s 
order. Everybody fell to chattering about 
what ought to be done or not done. The 
whole Battalion was talking at once. 

It was in the thick of all this palaver that 


In tl)e Strange Netu Slimes. 283 


Margan and Sergeant Peloux and I broke from 
the ranks and went out upon the bridge to 
where the first line of the National Guards 
’barred the way. 

Here Pascal stood up, slapped Lou Materoun 
on the shoulder, and said: “See here, it won’t 
do to have last night’s nonsense over again. 
My brother Lange says he won’t come for me 
again. He says that if 1 won’t come home in 
good time of my own accord he’ll bolt me out. 
And 1 know the stuff Lange is made of — he’ll 
do wfiat he says! ” 

After that there was nothing to wait for and 
we all got up too. I rose more slowly than 
the rest, for the cat was asleep on my lap and 
1 did not want to wake her. 1 laid her down 
on my little bench so gently that she only half 
opened her eyes and gave a drowsy gurgling 
purr, and instantly went off to sleep again. 
By way of good night, I ran my hand softly 
over her soft fur; and then, holding fast to 
my grandfather’s breeches, 1 too went off to 
bed. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE STORMING OF THE KING’S CASTLE. 

All night long I dreamed of that famous 
alarm-cannon which Margan had declared he 
would fire off. The next day I saw old Pascal 
sitting on the block in front of his mule’s 
stable. I was playing at marbles with^ oak- 
galls, all by myself, and I rolled them nearer 
and nearer to him while I tried to bring up my 
courage to the point of asking him just one 
question: “Did they fire it off?” But my 
courage would not rise so high. I even sent 
an oak-gall in between his feet; in the hope 
that he would speak to me as I was getting it, 
and so would give me a chance to ask that 
question that was burning the tip of my 
tongue. I don’t think that he even saw me. 
He certainly took no notice of me. Perhaps 
his spirit was wandering over ‘the sands of 
Egypt, or dreaming under a pomegranate tree 
in Spain. 

Night came at last, supper was over, the 

284 


®l)c Storming of tlje liing’s Cootie. 285 


lantern was lighted, and 1 already had my hand 
on the door-latch. But my grandfather, instead 
of following me, went down into the cellar by 
the other door. Presently he came up again 
carrying a big bottle, holding nearly a gallon, 
of rich-coloured malmsey. “This is Saint 
Martin’s Eve,” said he. “ The neighbours will 
enjoy a good cordial with their Saint Martin’s 
chestnut feast.” 

A blind man would have known that it 
was Saint Martin’s Eve. From every house 
came the appetizing savour of roasting chest- 
nuts and the sharp sweet smell of the blazing 
faggots of thyme ; and above the hum of the 
spinning-wheels we heard the rattling of the 
chestnuts in the roasting-pans and the laugh- 
ing shrieks of the girls as the corks popped 
and burst forth from the bottles of new wine — 
just brought up from the cellars to be drunk in 
honour of the good Saint Martin : the patron 
saint of all honest lovers of a bottle and a glass. 

As we entered the shoemaker’s shop La 
Mie called from the depths of the kitchen: 
“Oh, Pascal, do wait a minute. The chest- 
nuts are almost done,” and as she spoke we 
heard the last of them going off with sharp 
pops in the pan. 

“Don’t get excited, .La Mie — it’s bad for 


286 


QL[)C Bcbs of tl)e iHiM. 


the blood. I’ll wait for you,” Pascal an- 
swered. 

In five minutes she came in with a huge 
platter of roasted chestnuts — covered snugly 
with a sack folded four-double so that they 
would be well steamed — and when she had 
set it on the stove, and had placed glasses be- 
side my grandfather’s bottle on the dresser, all 
was ready for Saint Martin’s feast. 

But we still had to wait a little for the 
story. Just as La Mie had seated herself Lou 
Materoun said to her: “I don’t want to order 
you about. La Mie, but I wish you’d get me a 
straw from your broom to clean out my pipe- 
stem.” 

“Confound you!” exclaimed La Mie, 
crossly, as she jumped up to go and get the 
straw. “ Haven’t you any broom in your own 
house?” 

“ Ifs not every house,” Lou Materoun an- 
swered, “that’s as well furnished as this one 
— where there’s not only a broom but also a 
mop 1 ” * 

“You beast of a chatterbox!” cried La 
Mie, plumping back into her seat. “Find a 


* Tanoucho means a cleaning-rag fastened in a handle, 
and it also means a '^lut, a dirty woman. 


QLl)c Storming of tl)e liing's Caetk. 287 


straw for yourself— you shall have none of 
mine! ” 

“No matter — my pipe has cleaned it- 
self.” 

“Mops indeed!” she repeated. “Every 
one knows that you mop up your floor by 
dragging your wife around by her hair! ” 

“1 do the best 1 can, La Mie. I’m not a 
shoemaker — I haven’t a leather strap.” 

“Oh, hold your tongue, Lou Materoun!” 
said my grandfather. “ We’re not here to lis- 
ten to your clapper clawing. We are here for 
Pascal’s story.” 

“Yes, Lou Materoun,” said old Pascal, 
“ you seem to be working up a little sour — like 
wine that is going wrong. You’d better keep 
still for a while and let yourself settle.” 

And so, order having been restored, old 
Pascal settled himself on the bench and went 
cn. 


Well, as I told you yesterday, Margan and 
Peloux and I broke from our ranks and went 
out on the bridge to where the National Guards 
barred the way. Margan knew French, and 
by drawing his nose together and speaking 
through it he could talk just like a Parisian; 
we being close behind him, he fell to talking 


288 


®l)e t^ebs of tl)e illibi. 


away with three men who stood a little in ad- 
vance of the enemy’s line. 

But he found in no time that they were not 
enemies at all. They were good friends of 
the Nation, and they wanted as much as any- 
body to make the Revolution a success. Then 
Margan saw his way to what he wanted 
(though that was more than we did) and said 
to them: “ Since you are good Patriots, show 
it by doing what 1 ask. Lend us your cocked- 
hats and do you take in place of them our red 
caps. It will be only for five minutes — while 
we go up to the Pont-Neuf and come back 
again. But in that five minutes the Nation 
will be saved ! ” 

They were good fellows, those Parisians. 
Without stopping to ask questions they did 
what Margan wanted, and in the darkness — 
that they might not be questioned by their 
companions — they drew away toward our 
ranks. 

Margan did not keep us waiting long to 
find out what he was driving at. In a low 
voice, but dead in earnest, he said to us: “If 
you are good Federals, good Reds of the Midi, 
you will put on ^hose hats and follow me. We 
are going to the Pont-Neuf and we’ll leave our 
skins there or we’ll fire that gun! Do you 


Stormittig of tl)e King’s Castle. 289 


Peloux, get ready a good fuse that will burn 
well; and do you, Pascalet, get flint and steel 
that you may light it when the moment comes. 
I will tackle the officer in command on the 
bridge, and while I keep him in talk you must 
manage between you to touch off the cannon 
and give the alarm.” 

Then we understood, and we were ready 
to jump for joy! Peloux got out a good fuse 
— and with it, in case the cannon should need 
priming, a handful of powder — and turned 
over to me his flint and steel; and off we 
started through the darkness and the crowd. 
In five minutes we had reached the Pont-Neuf, 
where we were halted with a sharp ‘'Qui 
vive ? ” 

Friends,” Margan answered. “ An order 
from the Commandant of the Pont-Saint- 
Michel.” 

“ Pass! ” — and we were on the Pont-Neuf, 
walking along between two files of the Anti- 
Patriot guard. But we were safe enough 
under our blue-plumed cocked-hats. They 
took no notice of us — and in a moment we 
had come to the middle of the bridge and 
were close to the gun. It was trained toward 
the river, and standing around it were the four 
men of its crew. 


290 


®l)c Hebs of tl)e iflibi. 


‘'Attention! ” cried Margan, as though he 
had commanded gunners all his life; and as 
the men stepped forward — no doubt thinking 
he was an officer with orders — he pulled a 
paper out of his pocket, opened it slowly in 
the dull light that came from the bridge lamp, 
and held it up as if he were going to read. 

Peloux and I did not lose an instant. As 
the gunners came forward, we slipped into 
their places ; while Margan got out his paper, 
Peloux made sure of the priming and 1 struck 
my flint and steel together and the flying sparks 
lighted the fuse; and just as Margan held up 
the paper, as though to read it, we got the 
burning fuse to the touch-hole, and — Bang! 

That gun-shot — only a blank cartridge, that 
did not even ripple the quiet-flowing river over 
which it roared — shook the world: for it 
knocked to pieces the throne of France! 

Before even its echo came back from the 
walls of the King’s Castle, every belfry in Paris 
was ringing out the tocsin of the Revolution. 
Our own drums — ^joining with a hundred other 
drums — began to beat over on the Pont-Saint- 
Michel. VVe heard their lively sharp rattle in 
the same quick-step that so often had cheered 
and helped us in our long march northward. 
But what brought tears to our eyes and made 


(Jl)e Stormuii^ oi ti)e iviug’s (Eastle. 291 


our hearts beat high was hearing our brothers 
of the Battalion burst forth with the “Mar- 
seillaise ” : 


Aliens enfants de la Patrie, 
Le jour de gloire est arrive; 
Contre nous de la tyrannie, 
L'etendart sanglant est leve. 


Onward, children of our 
land! 

Now the day of glory 
dawns! 

Blood-stained banners rise to 
flout us 

Held aloft by tyrant hands! 


“ Who dared to fire the alarm-gun ?” cried 
the officer in command on the bridge, rushing 
at us and speaking in a voice hoarse with 
rage. 

And instantly we three, Margan and Peloux 
and 1, as though we had settled it all before- 
hand, had our pistols levelled at his head and 
were shouting “Vive la Nation! " 

“Vive la Nation!” shouted the gunners 
after us, for they too were good Patriots. 

That settled the Commandant — who went 
white as a sheet when he saw in front of his 
nose the three muzzles of our pistols, and then 
turned around and stammered out an order to 
his men. But his men, who heard the assem- 
bly beating everywhere, had so lost their heads 
that they paid no attention to orders ; and a 
moment later up came the Patriot battalions 


292 


®l)e Ueb0 of tl)e iHibi. 


from the Faubourg Saint-Marceau and took 
possession of the Pont-Neuf without striking a 
blow. 

We had done what we came to do, and 
away we went again to join our fellows on the 
Pont-Saint-Michel. There we waited for our 
supporting column, the Patriot troops from the 
Faubourg de Gloire, while all around us we 
heard the call of trumpets and the roll of drums. 

While we stood there, chafing to go for- 
ward, a commotion of some sort — a tremen- 
dous pushing and crushing — began in the 
closely pressed crowd over on the other side 
of the Pont-au-Change. We heard cries and 
roars without knowing what they meant — 
until twenty or thirty Patriots burst out from 
the crowd and came upon our bridge, drag- 
ging along a dead body hacked to pieces and 
covered with blood. It was the body of the 
Commandant General, Mandat. He had no 
more than begun to issue the orders which 
were to stop the Patriots than the man to 
whom Barbaroux had given the pistol stepped 
forward and blew out his brains. 

'‘Liberty or Death!” we shouted, and all 
the crowd with us — and then the traitor’s body 
was dragged to the middle of the bridge and 
tumbled over into the stream. For a moment 


®l)e Storming of tl]e Hinges Caatle. 293 


it whirled around under the arches like the 
body of a dead dog, and then it was gone. 
From the Faubourg de Gloire all the way to 
the Castle rose shouts of “Vive la Nation!” 
And all the bells, as though they too wanted 
to shout with us, pealed louder and louder the 
tocsin of the Revolution. 

We heard the rattle of drums advancing 
from the Faubourg de Gloire, and knew that 
our support was coming up. “Forward!’' 
cried Commandant Moisson, and off we started 
to take the lead — for we were determined that 
the first to march to the attack, and the first to 
step over the threshold of the King’s Castle, 
should be the Reds of the Midi! 

The street of Saint-Honore, into which we 
turned, was wild with noise and confusion. 
Our two drums beat steadily. We sang the 
“ Marseillaise ” with all our lungs. The wheels 
of our gun-carriages and of the forge clanged - 
on the pavement. Behind us the battalions of 
the Faubourg de Gloire were shouting the 
“^a ira ” to the rattle of their fourteen drums. 
All together we went on through the quarter 
of the Aristocrats like a furious torrent, like a 
mighty wind. 

• Now and then a high up window would 
be opened and a shot fired down at us — but 
21 


294 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


we laughed and marched on. “We can’t 
stop for pop-gun work now,” cried long 
Samat, hoisting still higher his banner of The 
Rights of Man; “We’ll attend to them to- 
morrow,” cried Margan. “Then they shall 
swallow the same sort of plurh-stones that 
we’ll give to the tyrant to-night! ” 

As we drew closer to the Castle the fire got 
hotter. Shots kept popping out at us from 
cellar-windows, from balconies, from the roofs. 
But nothing stopped us. On we marched, 
faster and faster — and roaring louder and louder 
the “ Marseillaise.” 

So we came to the Place du Carrousel, and 
found it full of Anti- Patriots: grenadiers, pike- 
men, gendarmes. But they fell back as we 
advanced. The gendarmes broke in no time. 
The grenadiers and pikemen held their ground 
a little better; but as we pressed upon them — 
with our howling chorus, “Tremble, tyrants! 
And you, traitors!” — they too gave way. In 
a moment their ranks were broken and they 
were crowding back against the iron gates of 
the Castle court; and in another moment the 
gates were opened and the whole pack of 
them, gendarmes, grenadiers, pikemen, had 
rushed pell-mell inside. The Place du Car- 
rousel was ours ! 


2 El)e Storming of tl)e king's Cflstlo. 295 


Our Battalion halted, and we formed our 
lines in front of the gate of the Cour Royale — 
the gate that had just banged-to on the backs 
of the runaway soldiers of the King. We 
were separated from the Castle only by its 
three courts — the Cour Royale in front of us, 
the Cour des Princes to the right, the Cour des 
Suisses to the left. Day was breaking, and 
the Castle no longer loomed up before us a 
mere black mass. We could see it all plainly; 
and we could see the mattresses piled in the 
windows, with loop-holes left through which 
the guards could fire as we came on. 

Our support came up — the battalions from 
the Faubourg de Gloire; the battalions from 
the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, wearing their 
plumes of cock’s feathers; the Federals from 
Brest in their red coats — and we greeted each 
other with shouts of “Vive la Nation!” that 
rang in the air. 

At that instant, as our great shout of Liberty 
went upward, the first sunrays of that August 
morning struck upon the highest walls of the 
Castle; and we saw that the sun was rising, 
as he had set, blood-red — as though God him- 
self wished to be with us and had given us a 
sign. 

The drums no longer were counted by two 


296 


€l)e Bcbe of tl)e iHibi. 


or by fourteen. Two score of them, a hun- 
dred of them, were rattling away together the 
pas de charge! No longer was it hundreds 
but thousands and thousands of voices which 
were crying together: “Death or Liberty!’’ 
Drums and voices rang out so loud and rose 
up with such tremendous force that the houses 
and the very stones in the streets were shaken, 
as though an earthquake had come. 

Commandant Moisson went up to the 
great gate of the Cour Royale, and cried loudly 
as he struck it three times with the pommel of 
his sword: “Open, in the name of the People 
and of Liberty! ” 

But there was no answer and the door re- 
mained shut fast. 

I was in the front rank. The Commandant 
turned to me. “Pascalet,” said he, “suppose 
there were ripe cherries on the other side of 
that wall. Couldn’t you manage to get your 
share of them 

There was no need for him to give me an 
order. I knew what he wanted — and in a 
moment my gun was slung over my shoulder 
and 1 had begun to climb. In another mo- 
ment, going up lightly as a cat, 1 was a-straddle 
of the top of the wall. “What next, Com- 
mandant ? ” I called down. 


®[)e Storming of tl)e King’s Castle. 297 


‘‘Tell me whafs going on in there.” 

“They’re all running away like rabbits, 

Commandant. May 1 ? ” and 1 drew and 

levelled my pistols. “ 1 could make a splendid 
double shot! ” 

“Don’t fire! Don’t fire! ” he cried. 

“ Well, it’s too late now — they’re all safe in- 
side. The gendarmes, the green grenadiers, the 
red Swiss — the whole riff-raff has got safe away. 

“No! No! ” I went on. “There’s still one 
left — and 1 do believe it’s the King! Hello, 
Capet, is that you ? Pull up or I’ll shoot! Oh, 
it must be the King. Shall 1 fire. Comman- 
dant } Oh, mayn’t 1 fire } ” 

“No, you may not,” answered the Com- 
mandant sharply. 

“He’s gone,” 1 said, lowering my pistol. 
“ It’s a pity you didn’t let me shoot him. Com- 
mandant. He certainly was the King. He 
came out of the little house by the door, and he 
was splendidly dressed in an embroidered coat 
and velvet breeches and white silk stockings, 
and he had silver buckles on his shining shoes. 
It was the King for sure! ” 

“ Oh you little numskull, ” laughed the Com- 
mandant, while all the men of the Battalion 
who had heard me laughed too. “Why, that 
was the porter! ” 


298 


®l)e of tl)e illiM. 


“Then I’ll do his work for him,” I cried — 
and down I dropped into the court, and in ten 
seconds I had lifted away the bar and drawn 
the bolts and the gate was open wide. In 
marched Commandant Moisson and the Battal- 
ion after him — and the Reds of the Midi were 
the first to enter the Castle of the King! 

At that very instant — though we did not 
know it until later — the tyrant and his Austrian 
woman were running for their lives on the 
other side of the Castle through the gardens. 
Liberty came in triumphant, while Despotism 
slunk away like a fox smoked out of its lair. 

But we thought that the King still was in- 
side, and so made our arrangements to hold 
him fast. Our Battalion, with the Brest Fed- 
eral, occupied the Cour Royale ; the Cour des 
Princes and the gardens were held by the men 
from the Faubourg de Gloire; the force from 
the Faubourg Saint-Marceau took possession of 
the Cour des Suisses — and so we had the Castle 
surrounded on all sides. 

The King’s soldiers were standing ready 
for us. Along the whole front of the Castle and 
up the steps leading to the main doorway was 
a barricade of human flesh — gendarmes, grena- 
diers, pikemen — that we would have to break 
our way through ; and in front of this line were 


®l)c Stormiuig of tl)c liing’s Castle. 299 


the black muzzles of fourteen cannon. Inside, 
the red-coated Swiss filled the hall and the 
stairway ; and on the balconies and at the win- 
dows and on the terraces of the garden were 
posted dukes and counts and marquises, and 
all the small-fry of the nobility beside. There 
were ten thousand of them, 1 suppose, and we 
had to get rid of them all ! 

But at first it looked as if there would be ’ 
no need for a fight. As we entered the court 
some of the King’s gunners shouted ‘‘Vive la 
Nation!,” and at the same time some of the 
Swiss threw us their cartridges in proof that 
they did not mean to fire. Finding, things 
going so well, and doubting nothing, some of 
us stooped to pick up the cartridges and others 
of us went forward to press the hands of the 
men who were showing themselves to be not 
the King’s servants and our enemies but Patriots 
and our friends. 

But we were going too fast in failing to 
reckon with the Aristocrats who were looking 
down at us from their loop-holes with their 
guns in their hands. 

Suddenly there was a deafening crash in 
the air above us — and from all the windows 
poured down upon us a hail of balls. At that 
first volley Commandant Moisson fell with both 


300 


Ee5s of tl)e illiM. 


legs shattered, and seven of our men dead and 
twenty wounded were lying on the ground. 

Our line fell back — but only a few steps and 
only for a moment. Our Commandant, des- 
perately wounded though he was, rallied us. 
Raising himself on his arms he shouted “Vive 
la Nation!” — and at those words our lines 
steadied, the muzzles of our guns went down 
as smooth and even as a wind-pressed fence 
of canes, and at the command’ “ Fire! ” we be- 
gan to pour in upon the traitors in the Castle 
a steady rain of balls. Before our fire gen- 
darmes and grenadiers and pikemen went 
down in heaps, blood spirting from their 
wounds like wine from a cask. Horses fell 
dead or reared and plunged in the terror caused 
by their hurts; and bits of stone and plaster 
came rattling down from the walls. 

But v/e also were getting it. Balls whistled 
all around us and among us — coming from 
windows and roofs and balconies, from every- 
where all at once! The spat! spat! as they 
struck the ground was all around me — with 
that queer softer sound that a bullet makes 
when it breaks in upon human flesh and bone. 
I was in mortal terror, and 1 said to myself: 
“Oh, oh, oh, poor Pascalet! If you don’t 
die to-day you’ll never die at all! ” 


9 ri)e Storming of tl)c Iving's (Eastle. 301 


Right beside me, Samat was struck between 
the eyes by a ball which blew his head open. 
He fell upon me, still holding his banner of 
The Rights of Man. In the thick choking 
smoke, I did not know what really had hap- 
pened. I thought that 1 was wounded — and I 
felt myself all over to find where 1 was hurt. 
But 1 couldn’t find any wound; and then I 
made out that the heavy weight upon my 
breast was what was left of poor Samaf s head. 
Well, he was dead — and all 1 could do for him 
was to drag his body a little away on one side, 
close to the foot of a wall. 

I set to work with my gun again — though 
the thick smoke so blinded me that I could not 
well make out what 1 was firing at — and fired 
steadily. At least two thirds of our shots were 
wasted against the Castle walls. The luck 
was against us, for the Royalists at the win- 
dows and on the balconies could see where to 
aim and nearly every one of their shots went 
true — wounding and disabling when it did not 
kill. And above all the rattle and roar of the 
firing, above the clatter of the drums, keener 
even than the sharp words of command, 1 heard 
the dreadful cries, the horrible screams of the 
wounded men. A poor Federal was stretched 
out in front of me, and as I stepped over him 


302 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


he caught me by the leg and shrieked: ‘‘Fin- 
ish me! Put an end to me. I am choking 
with a coal of fire! ” — and showed me a fright- 
ful wound where a ball had crashed through 
him from breast to side. But 1 could not kill 
him, and 1 pulled myself away from his grasp. 

1 was ramming down a fresh load into my 
piece when there came an eddy of wind that 
thinned the smoke so that 1 had a view of one 
of the windows on the floor above. My 
heart gave a great throb — for in that window 
1 saw Count Robert, gun in hand, firing down 
on our men! Over his shoulder, in another 
moment, 1 saw Surto leaning forward and 
handing him a fresh-loaded gun. 

“Now,” thought 1, “my time has come! 
Monster, murderer of my father, it is my turn 
now!” 1 levelled my gun at him and took 
careful aim. He was fairly at the end of my 
barrel, and my hand was on the trigger. But 
1 couldn’t fire. A tremor came over me, and 
the look that Adeline gave me as 1 parted 
from her flashed before my eyes. 1 had prom- 
ised her that 1 would not hurt her brother. 1 
lowered my gun ! 

But 1 had made no promises about Surto. 
He was fair game. But, try as 1 might, I 
could not get a shot at him. The coward hid 


Storming of tlje King’s Clastle. 303 


himself so well behind his master that all I 
could see of him was his arm as he reached 
foward every moment or so to hand the fresh 
pieces with which the Count kept up a steady 
fire. 

And while I stood watching for my chance 
1 saw something so startling that 1 scarcely 
could believe my eyes. While the Count 
leaned forward, aiming, Surto's big hand came 
in sight holding a pistol. In another instant 
the muzzle of the pistol was close to the back 
of his master’s head. There was a flash — and 
Count Robert, his head blown to pieces, fell 
forward across the window-ledge while a 
stream of blood ran down the wall to the 
ground. 

I was utterly bewildered. I pinched my- 
self to make sure I was not dreaming. But it 
was no dream. There was the Count’s body 
across the window-sill, his arms flopping 
down outside. Of Surto 1 could see nothing. 
He had fired his traitor shot and run away. 

That was no place for stopping to think. 
While I still was looking up at the window 
there was the tremendous report of a cannon 
loaded with grape, and 1 found myself nearly 
blinded with smoke while all around me was 
the sharp whistle of flying balls. Our men 


304 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


were mowed down like grass. The ground 
was strewn with dead and wounded. Our 
line broke and we fell back toward the gate — 
while the Royalists set up a great cheering of 
“ Vive le Roi! ” and “ Vive la Reine! ” 

Captain Gamier, who had taken command 
of the Battalion when our Commandant fell, 
was the only one of us who stood firm. He 
was clear grit, that man, and he showed his 
grit then. He did not fall back a single step. 
There in the whirling smoke, among the dead 
and wounded, he stood alone. We saw him 
wave his sword, and ^e heard him cry: “To 
me, men of Marseilles! ” 

And then came another shout, but from our 
rear. Our old gunner Peloux had not yet had 
a chance to make his dogs bark, and it was his 
voice that we heard. “ Room for the guns! 
he shouted. “You call yourselves Marseilles 
Patriots and back down before Parisian Aristo- 
crats! ril teach you how to get rid of Anti- 
Patriots. Let me get at them with these 
bronze squirts of mine. Out of the way, all 
of you! Room for the guns! ” 

The coolness of our Captain and our gun- 
ner put us to shame. Our panic was ended 
and we grew steady again. Some of us made 
a clear path by dragging aside the dead and 


Storming of tl)e Hing's Castle. 305 


wounded, while others tailed-on to the ropes 
or tugged at the wheels of the guns. In no 
time we had them both, loaded as they were 
to the muzzle with grape, planted right in 
front of the great entrance to the Castle. 
Through the thinning smoke we could see 
clustered on the steps the grenadiers in their 
hairy caps; and behind them, in the vestibule, 
the red-coated Swiss were crowded like a 
swarm of bees. They fired on us steadily. 
The black entrance was bright with the flash 
of their pieces. It was like the mouth of hell. 

But Peloux paid no attention at all to the 
balls that went whistling around him — plough- 
ing up the earth, knocking big splinters out of 
the gun-carriages, making long silvery streaks 
on the bronze guns. Without in the least 
hurrying himself, he trained the muzzles of 
both pieces straight toward the doorway, care- 
fully primed them, and flourished his linstock 
to bring it to a glow. In his easy-going, 
devil-may-care way, when all was ready, he 
mockingly took off his hat and bowed to the 
Castle; and as he touched off his cannon he 
cried mockingly, as though he had been 
emptying slops out of a window: “Look out 
below! ” 

Bang! went the first gun, spitting out 


3o6 


l^cbs of tl)e iUibi. 


grape on the Swiss and grenadiers and cutting 
a swath like a scythe-stroke in a clover-field ! It 
was our turn to roar then, and we yelled 
“ Vive la Nation! ” at the top of our lungs. 

As the smoke cleared away a little we saw 
our harvest of dead and wounded. The steps 
were strewn with fallen men. The grenadiers 
had broken and were crowding back into the 
Castle upon the Swiss, while some of them 
were squeezing down into the cellar-windows 
or running toward the garden. 

“Te!” shouted Peloux. “They don’t like 
the way our guns spit. Wait for the other 
one! He blew up his linstock, made another 
mocking bow, and cried: “Look out behind, 
gentlemen!” — and so fired the second gun 
through the doorway of the Castle right into 
the thick of the crowd. Soldiers of all colours, 
red, green, white and blue, fell dying in 
heaps. 

That time it was the Aristocrats who were 
panic-struck. They stopped firing at us from 
the doorway, and we had only the peppering 
of shots from the windows above. Our drums, 
which had stopped beating when we were 
driven back, broke out loudly with the old 
quick-step; Captain Gamier, rushing ahead 
of us, shouted “ Forward ! ” ; and with lowered 


QL[)c Storming of tl)e King’s (ilostle. 307 


bayonets we charged up the steps into the 
Castle — the hornet’s nest, the snake’s lair! 

“Oh, the devil!” cried Margan, as he 
plunged into the thick of it with his head 
down, like a bull broken loose in the city 
streets. “Now we’re going to get pitch-forks 
in our hides! ” 

And pockmarked Margan was right, so 
we were ! All the way up those stairs it was 
nothing but sword points and bayonets. The 
grenadiers and Swiss stood four men to a step, 
giving us cut and thrust as we came on — and 
the others higher up poured on us a steady 
fire. At each step four men had to be got rid 
of by bayonet, sword or pistol. 

It was slow work. But with Captain Gar- 
nier and Margan to set the pace there was no 
balking. Vauclair was close up with them. 
We all set our bayonets and pressed for- 
ward. 

Peloux, who made fun of everything, 
pointed to the red coats of the Swiss mixed 
in with the green coats of the Grenadiers and 
called out: “Hello, boys, we’re going to pick 
tomatoes! Forward, all who like tomatoes ! ” 
and as he spoke, he let fly into the crowd 
above us two grenades which went off with a 
tremendous noise. 


3o8 


Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


That was the turning point of our fight on 
the staircase. Through the blinding smoke 
we could hear the crash of broken glass that 
followed the bursting of the grenades, and then 
the groans of the wounded. We surged for- 
ward, yelling “Vive la Nation!,” with such 
a rush that the steps trembled under us. The 
explosion, the shouts, the trembling of the 
stones, made the Anti-Patriots believe that the 
staircase was breaking down under them — and 
suddenly there was a rush and a crush and a 
scamper that can not be told! 

Some of the poor Swiss, losing their heads, 
flung themselves down upon our bayonets or 
jumped over the balusters and broke their 
bones on the stone pavement below. They 
no longer kept a steady front against us, and 
upward we went — spitting with our bayonets 
and slinging behind us those of them who did 
stand firm, and who cried in the very moment 
they got their death-thrust “Vive le Roi!” 
Vive la Reine!” As we killed them, these 
men did not seem to weigh an ounce. We 
stuck them through and tossed them behind 
us as though we had been turning sheaves on 
a threshing-floor. Margan was right, it was 
pitchfork work indeed ! 

We got up almost to the first story; but it 


®l)e Storming of tlie King's Clastic. 309 


seemed as if the more men we got rid of the 
more sprang up before us. We were covered 
with blood from our heads to our heels. Blood 
was pouring down the staircase as though 
hogsheads of wine had been stove-in above. 
My wrists were strained and sore. My bayo- 
net was bent by all the bones it had struck 
against in breasts and thighs. 

It was Peloux who cleared away the group 
at the head of the stairway with a couple more 
of his grenades. There was another tremen- 
dous crash as the grenades exploded; and then 
most of the Royalists left alive, and with legs 
to carry them, scattered like a suddenly dis- 
covered nest of rats and made off for the King’s 
apartment. 

A few of them, seeing that fighting was 
useless, surrendered; and some of these we 
spared. The poor Swiss, who only were do- 
ing their duty, were given their lives; and so 
were the wretched National Guards — the men 
of the people, as we knew by their rough 
shirts and hard hands, who were fighting us 
against their will. But it was another mat- 
ter with the sprigs of nobility, the counts and 
marquises with their lace jabots and their silk- 
tied queues. For them there was no mercy. 
It was a knock on the head or a span of cold 


310 


Eebe of tl)e illibi. 


steel in their breasts — and then out of the win- 
dow to Coblentz ! 

Our catechism was a short one. “Ah, 
you are one of the people. Good. Shout 
‘Vive la Nation!’ Be a good Patriot. Go 
your way! ” Or it would be: “Ah, you wear 
silk stockings and your hair is powdered. 
Good. Swallow this plum ! ” and crack would 
go a pistol-ball through his skull. I tell you 
it was a good thing on that Tenth of August 
to wear a coarse shirt and have rough hands! 

For two hours and more the good work 
went on. We hunted everywhere: in pas- 
sages and in parlours, in big rooms and in 
little rooms; in garrets and in lofts. And 
everywhere we found people hidden away so 
frightened that they didn’t dare to call their 
souls their own. We routed them out from 
closets, from on top of wardrobes, from under 
beds; we dragged them down from chimneys; 
we caught them stowed away in the rafters 
under the tiles; we chased them over the 
roof. 

At last, when we thought we had cleared 
out the whole place, we came to a landing be- 
tween two stairways where an Aristo was 
standing guard before a bolted door. He was 
a brave fellow, that Aristo. “ Halt,” he cried. 


QL\)c Storming of tl)e Hing’s Castle. 31 1 


“You can’t enter here!” — and he cracked ofif 
his pistol and the ball cut through Margan’s 
cap and just shaved his skull. Yet it was 
Margan who saved his life for him. The rest 
of us would have finished him in no time; but 
Margan stood by him and we let him go — 
although the pig-head could not be made to 
cry “ Vive la Nation! ” at any price at all! 

We bounced him down stairs, and as we 
burst the door open there were cries and screams 
from within. In the room we found three grand 
court ladies, and a younger lady as lovely as 
the day, all dressed in silks and laces. The 
oldest of them called to us to save from death 
her niece, meaning the beautiful young lady, 
and said that if any one must die it should be 
herself — and as she spoke she went down on 
her knees before us and bared her breast to 
our swords. 

Her devotion moved us and filled us with 
wonder. Captain Gamier made short work of 
the matter. He caught the lady’s hand and 
pulled her to her feet, saying: “Get up, 
hussy ! The nation has no need for your life ” 
— and then he detailed four men to escort 
the women to some place where they would 
be safe. 

Those, certainly, were the last of the traitor 


312 


®l)e 11eb0 of tl)e iHibi. 


Aristos left in the Castle. It was midday, and 
the fight was at an end. There was not a 
whole pane of glass left in the windows. 
Everywhere the doors which we had burst in 
were lying flat or hanging crazily on their 
broken hinges. The furniture was tossed and 
tumbled everywhere. The carpets, the walls, 
the hangings, were splashed with blood. Dead 
men were lying around everywhere on the 
floors. In one of the front rooms 1 saw the 
body of Count Robert still hanging across the 
window-ledge, just as he fell at Surto’s trai- 
tor shot. 

We entered the King’s apartment, all hung 
with white and blue. “ See, that’s his por- 
trait up there! ” said Margan — and in a moment 
he had snatched it off the wall and flung it on 
the floor. We joined hands and danced a faran- 
dole around it, each of us as we passed spitting 
on the tyrant’s face, and all of us roaring out 

Dansons la Carmagnole, 

Vive le son du canon! 

Since our supper of the night before not 
one of us had had bite or sup. Yet we went 
on as though we were drunk, hugging and 
kissing the brave Federals of Brest and the 
Patriots from the Faubourg de Gloire and 


0 :i)e Storming of t\)c King’s Castle. 313 


dragging them into our farandole. And so, 
farandoling, we all went on into the apartment 
of the Queen. 

There all was gold and silk, and mirrors 
covering the walls to the very ceiling, and 
pictures to take your breath away, and curtains 
and laces, and carpets as soft as down. And 
all had a sweet delightful smell. Margan 
caught hold of the bed and dragged it into the 
middle of the room; and as he tumbled and 
rolled on it we took up our crazy round again 
and danced about him singing the worst thing 
we could think of to sing: 

Fai, fai, fai te lou tegne blu, panturlo! 

Fai, fai, fai te lou tegne blu ! 

It was while 1 was in the midst of this 
dance that 1 suddenly fell to wondering what 
had become of Vauclair. Could he be wounded, 
1 thought, or— dead! The thought made me 
shiver. I dropped from the round and ran 
searching for him through the rooms — stopping 
now and then to turn over a dead man, lying 
face downward on the floor, to make sure that 
it was not my friend. I looked out from the 
windows upon the courts, the terraces, the 
gardens. I saw National Guards in plenty, 
crowds of Patriots, some even of our own 


314 


®l)e Eebs of tlje iHibi. 


men. They were helping the wounded or 
they were hugging each other and crying and 
laughing. But I did not see Vauclair. 

But from one of the windows, looking 
down upon a corner of the gardens cut off 
from the rest by a thick hedge of laurel, I did 
see a very strange and dreadful sight. There 
was old Planchot, drawn close against the 
wall, standing straight up and watching a 
cellar-window as a cat watches a rat hole. 
Some poor Swiss, who had taken refuge in the 
cellar when they saw how all had gone wrong, 
were trying to get out by the window and so 
give their legs a chance to save their skins. 
Poor wretches ! As soon as one of them stuck 
out his head — crack! Planchot’s axe split his 
skull! And then Planchot’s hands dragged 
him out and laid him on one side. The game 
evidently had been going on for some time, 
for there was a ghastly heap of bodies; and in 
the midst of all this carnage Planchot was fairly 
chuckling with delight. It was a sight so 
frightful that it made my blood run cold. 

While I stood watching him, my eyes held 
fast by horror, I saw another sight that, while 
not so dreadful, was still more strange. There 
stepped out from behind the laurel hedge a big 
man, wearing the uniform of the National 


®l)e Starming of tl)e Eing’o Qlaotle. 315 


Guard, who went straight up to Planchot and 
spoke to him. For a moment I felt dazed and 
everything whirled around me; for the big 
man — there could be no mistake about it — was 
Surto ; and to see Surto in that dress, and talk- 
ing that way to Planchot, seemed to me to see 
about the most impossible thing in the world! 

But my wits did not stay long wool-gather- 
ing. “Oh you miserable dog! Oh you mur- 
derer!" I cried, “I’ve got you at last!" And 
I sprang back from the window and rushed 
down the stairway four steps at a time, pistol 
in hand. 

Half way down I plumped into a man 
coming up. It was Vauclair, who was look- 
ing for me as I had been looking for him. 
“Hello, Pascalet! " said he, “what’s the mat- 
ter ? Where are you bound in such a hurry ? 
You look as wild-eyed as if you had seen a 
ghost! ” 

I did not let him stop me. “Come along! 
Come along ! " I shouted back. ‘ ‘ Surto’s down 
there with Planchot. I’m going to kill him 
like a mad dog! " 

Vauclair turned and came tearing down 
after me, and followed me through rooms and 
passages until we got out of doors. We ran 
round the Castle, and presently 1 found the 


3i6 


Ecirs of tl)o illiM. 


place that I was looking for. There was the 
laurel hedge ; there were the dead Swiss lying 
in a pile as. Planchot had thrown them — but as 
for Planchot and Surto, they had vanished like 
smoke! 

1 was wild, crazy, my eyes were starting 
out of my head, in the same breath 1 wept and 
cursed with rage. Vauclair looked at me 
queerly, and then with a kind touch laid his 
hand on my arm. “Come, come, Pascalet,” 
he said, “your eyes have played a trick on 
you. You are weak for want of food and 
your wits are not steady. The boys are wait- 
ing for us. There, don’t you hear the drums 
beating the recall ? Come ! ” 

I let him lead me away, but 1 knew that 
my eyes had not played a trick on me and that 
my wits were all right. There was the laurel 
hedge; there was the cellar-window; up above 
was the window out of which 1 had seen 
Planchot and Surto as plainly as ever 1 saw 
anybody in my life. As we walked away I 
kept looking back over my shoulder in the 
hope that Surto might show again, but the 
place was bare. 

The men of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau 
were assembling in the Gardens, and the men 
of the Faubourg de Gloire in the Place du 


Sri)e Storming of tl)e liing’s Qlastlc. 317 


Carrousel. We followed the call of our own 
drums to the Cour Royale. There we found 
Captain Gamier, a bloody handkerchief wrapped 
round his hand, getting the Battalion into line, 
and Vauclair and 1 fell in. Our men were 
shaking hands over their good luck in coming 
through the fight alive, and telling each other 
what they had done in it, and sorrowing over 
the wounded and dead. 

At the first calling of the roll only two hun- 
dred of us answered to our names; but strag- 
glers came in every moment to fill some of the 
vacant places in the ranks. Many of our men 
had been detailed to take prisoners to the Na- 
tional Assembly, and others had gone there of 
their own accord to deposit valuables which 
they had found. When 1 met Vauclair on the 
stairs he had just come back from taking to 
the Assembly a purse full of gold louis d’ors 
which he had found on the floor of the King’s 
apartment. Others had taken jewels left scat- 
tered on the carpets or lying on the smashed 
furniture. Tears of joy rolled down our cheeks 
as each new man took his place in the ranks. 

When some time had passed without the 
return of more of our comrades, Captain Gar- 
nier again called the roll — slowly, company by 
company. When a name was called to which 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


31S 


there was no answer the drums rolled mourn- 
fully — and that meant: “ He died for Liberty! ” 
Two hundred out of five hundred men were 
missing. As we found later, twenty of these 
were dead, and one hundred and eighty 
wounded. 

While this sad roll-call went on the National 
Guards had brought biers and were carrying 
off the dead bodies scattered everywhere in 
the courts and gardens and inside the Castle. 
They lifted up poor Samat from the place 
against the wall to which 1 had dragged him 
in the morning, and as they brought him 
toward us the Battalion presented arms. Sobs 
choked us and tears blinded us. In a moment 
we had broken ranks and had surrounded our 
poor dead comrade, crying like children. Each 
one of us in turn kissed the poor cold hand 
hanging from the bier: that Patriot hand that 
for two hundred leagues had carried, as though 
it had been the Host, the Declaration of the 
Rights of Man. 

As we fell back into line and stood ready 
to march I felt something warm, like a little 
stream of warm water, trickling down into my 
shoe; and for a moment 1 felt sick and faint 
and a flash of lightning seemed to pass before 
my eyes. I looked down to see what was 


®l)e Storming of tl)e King’s CHastle. 319 


happening to my foot and what it was that 
felt warm — and, behold ! it was my own blood 
dropping down in big drops like great red cur- 
rants from my little finger! How queer it 
was! I did not in the least remember being 
wounded. I couldn’t help calling out: “See! 
See! The first joint of my little finger has 
been shot away ! ” 

I was so delighted to think that 1 really had 
been wounded in the fight that I jumped up and 
down with joy — ^just as a cat does when she 
feels the weather is going to change. “I’m 
wounded, I’m wounded, too! Vive la Na- 
tion!” I cried — and I held up my bleeding 
stump so that everybody could see I’d been 
hit. Our men all burst out laughing at me, 
and at my joy that the tip of one of my fingers 
had been shot off. 

But what was queerer than my having 
been hit without knowing it was that as soon 
as I did know it my finger began to throb and 
smart with pain. But I did with it what I had 
been used to do when I smashed my paws in 
cracking almonds — I put it into my mouth and 
sucked it; and so, feeling like a hero and look- 
ing like a finger-sucking baby, off I marched 
with the Battalion to the barracks. 

Our work was over and we were free to 


320 


9ri)e 0 f tl)c illilri. 


rest ourselves and have a good time. Away 
we marched, our men singing the holy chant 
of Liberty : 

Aliens enfants de la Patrie, 

Le jour de gloire est arrive! 

But I couldn’t sing because 1 had my finger in 
my mouth ! 1 could only comfort myself by see- 
ing all along the Rue Saint-Honore the proof of 
how the Paris people had changed their tune. In 
that very street, the night before, they had fired 
at us from the windows and stoned us from the 
roofs; and as we marched back by daylight 
the same windows and roofs were crowded 
with men, women and children welcoming us 
with shouts of “Vive les Marseillais! ” 

Oh, but it was fun to see the fat shopmen 
bowing and scraping to us in their doorways 
and to hear them cheering us — while they sent 
painters scampering up long ladders to daub 
out in a hurry the fleur-de-lys, and the Royal 
arms, and all the Anti-Patriot stuff they had 
stuck on their signs! Out came “Vive le 
Roi! ” and, “ Vive la Reine! ” and “Devil take 
the Nation! ” — and in their place came “Down 
with the tyrant!” and “Vive la Nation!” and 
“ Vive les Marseillais! ” 

As we came to the Arcade Samt-Jean the 
crowd grew so thick in front of us that we 


(Jlie Storming of tl)e liing's QIaotle. 321 


scarcely could make our way through it; and 
then we found that it was dammed up against 
the section of the National Guard of Paris com- 
manded by the famous Santerre. There, in that 
place so far away from the King’s Castle, we 
found that Santerre’s precious National Guard 
had spent all the night and all the morning — 
ready to join the winning side as soon as they 
knew which it was ! There they waited, ready 
to greet us with open arms or to fall on us and 
kill us for rebels, just as our luck at the Castle 
should decide. And as luck had been with us 
— as they knew that the Castle was in ruins 
and the throne upset and the King the people’s 
prisoner — they stuck their hats on their bay- 
onets and came toward us shouting with the 
crowd: “ Vive les Marseillais! ” 

But we weren’t exactly idiots, and we said 
to ourselves: “ These Parisians are a nice lot — 
we opened the door, and now they want to 
push in ahead of us and be greater Revolu- 
tionists than we ! Prudent Monsieur Santerre, 
who always had a thorn in his foot when we 
wanted him to go ahead with us, now wants 
to get in front of the whole procession! To- 
morrow it will be Santerre who has thrown 
down the tyrant and saved the country all by 
himself!" And in our thoughts we added: 


322 


®l)c Hebs of tl)e iiXiM. 


“If only he doesn’t go and spoil all we have 
begun so well! ” 

Already the jackals were at work. Crowds 
of pilfering good-for-nothings, ragged scamps, 
drunken and dishevelled women, even Na- 
tional Guards, were robbing the houses and 
churches and palaces. And the tigers were at 
work, too. We met strings of people getting 
hauled along to prison tied fast like thieves — 
priests, nobles, honest middle-class folk, all 
half-dead with fear. The only charge against 
them was that they were Anti-Patriots; or, if 
not quite Anti-Patriots, that they were so far 
behind the times as still to have some respect 
left for their King and their Queen. We, the 
Reds of the Midi — who had been cried out at 
for brigands, for galley-slaves escaped from 
Toulon — would have thought it quite enough 
to have made them shout “Vive la Nation!” 
and then go their ways. But these Parisians 
who had shirked the real fighting, who had 
let us all by ourselves save the country and 
The Rights of Man, felt that they must draw 
blood from the Aristocrats in order to wash out 
their shame. By the time that we reached our 
barracks, that is to say by the middle of the 
afternoon, all of the Paris prisons were full of 
Aristocrats or of poor wretches who were 


(2:i)e Storming’ of tl)e Hinges OTastlc. 323 


taken for Aristocrats. We had believed that 
we were opening the gates for Liberty to enter 
in and possess the land ; and, behold ! we had 
let loose the foxes of rapine and the wolves 
of revenge and the scorpions of hate! 1, who 
was then but a boy, saw it all only too well. 

When we got to our barracks we had all 
the bread and wine that we wanted, and we 
just stuffed till we were packed full. And as 
I still had by me two heads of garlic I made 
the best meal of them all. Good-hearted Mar- 
gan had tied up my finger, with a bit of ama- 
dou that stopped the bleeding, and I was all 
right after my first swallow of wine. 

Vauclair and I kept looking at each other 
while we were eating; and 1 knew that he 
was thinking, just as 1 was, how glad Lazuli 
and Adeline and Clairet would be to see us safe 
and sound. Before we had fairly finished he 
said to me: “Well, Pascalet, you know who 
wants to see us. How do you feel about go- 
ing home ? ” 

How did I feel ? The words were barely 
out of his mouth before I had given a last kiss 
to my bottle, wiped my lips on my sleeve, 
clacked my tongue, and stood up ready to 
start! 

All the way from our barracks to the Im- 


324 


®l)e Eebs of tl)o itlibi. 


passe Guemenee we had to push our way 
through a yelling, frightful crowd. The streets 
were full of people half drunk or half crazy, all 
flourishing swords and pikes and all screaming 
and shouting. But our uniform made us sure 
of a welcome everywhere as we went along. 
The very people who the day before had 
stabbed us with looks of hate were the first to 
cry Vive les Marseillais! ” 

At last we reached Planchot’s door, and 
Planchot’s wife and Lazuli and Adeline and 
Clairet were all there ready to open to our knock 
and call. Vauclair and Lazuli threw themselves 
into each other’s arms; 1 caught Adeline to me 
and kissed her as though she had been my sis- 
ter; and little Clairet hugged away at his fath- 
er’s leg. 

But there was no Planchot to greet Jane- 
toun. When she found that he was not with 
us she covered her face with her apron and burst 
forth into lamentations and sobs and groans. 
“They have killed my Planchot!” she cried. 
“ I ought never to have let him go. Who will 
give me back my Planchot?” And down she 
fell on the bench and then rolled off and lay 
among the shavings on the floor. To tell the 
truth, we all were so much taken up with our 
own affairs that we paid no attention to her. 


Storming of tl)e Hing's (Hastle. 325 


And it did not matter; for while we still were 
kissing each other the door flew open and 
Planchot came in. He was frightful to behold. 
He held his bloody axe in his hand, and was 
so covered with blood from head to foot that 
at first his wife did not know him. Not until 
she had taken a long look at him did she 
scream out: “ It is indeed my Planchot! ” But 
she did not venture to touch him. “ What has 
happened to you } Where are you wounded ? 
Has some one killed a pig and tumbled you 
into the tub of blood } ” 

“lam not wounded anywhere,” Planchot 
answered; “but my wrist is a good deal 
strained. That axe, just as you see it there, 
has cracked the skulls of seventeen Aristos. 
Yes, I, Planchot, I all by myself made a heap 
of dead bodies that I believe would fill up this 
room! And afterward, with the help of a 
good Patriot who joined himself to me, I was 
able to catch and to deliver over to the people 
all the nobles and Anti-Patriots here in our 
Quarter. It is only a moment since I gave up 
the last one, a noble in the Rue des Douze 

Portes, the Marquis of— of Devil take his 

name, it makes no difference what it was. Oh 
there will be plenty of heads for our holy guil- 
lotines! ” 


23 


326 


®l)e Ecbs of tl)e illiM. 


“Oh Blessed Mary help!” cried Adeline; 
and as she spoke she fell back pale as death. 

“ Hold your tongue, Planchot! ” cried Vau- 
clair. “ Don’t you see you are frightening that 
child out of her wits ? ” 

Planchot’s wife had thrown her apron over 
her head again and was rocking back and forth 
saying: “Oh, it can’t be possible! It can’t 
be possible! It can’t be my man who has 
done such things! ” 

Planchot was delighted with having so ter- 
rified his wife; but as he wiped his bloody 
hands with shavings he said, gently: “Yes, 
the poor little girl is faint. If I had known it 
would hurt her I wouldn’t have said a word. 
Get some orange-flower water, wife. She’ll 
soon come to.” 

Janetoun and Lazuli and I, together, carried 
Adeline up stairs and laid her on Lazuli’s bed ; 
for that very morning her own had gone off 
with the rest of the guillotines. When we 
had left the room, as Vauclair told me after- 
ward, Planchot went on: “It’s really too bad 
about her, poor child! But how could I know 
that what I was saying would upset her so ? It’s 
lucky I didn’t tell about the horrible big woman 
who wanted to bleed the little Marquis with 
her pig-sticking knife. I stopped that game. 


(Jl)e Storming of tl)e king's tootle. 327 


however. We must draw the line somewhere, 
and I wouldn’t let her do it — the dirty jade! ” 

“A big woman with a pig-sticking knife,” 
broke in Vauclair. “What was her name, 
Planchot ? Was it La Jacarasse ? ” 

“Why yes, La Jacarasse. That was the 
name, sure enough,” Planchot answered. 

“Then shame to you, miserable man that 
you are! ” cried Vauclair. “It must have been 
the Marquis d’Ambrun that you delivered up. 
And as to that famous Patriot who was help- 
ing you, he is the servant of the Marquis — a 
murderous dog of a German who only this 
morning was fighting against us at the King’s 
Castle — no Patriot at all. He is the lover of 
the Marquise, and he has betrayed his master 
to death so that he may steal safely his wealth 
as well as his wife. Is it possible that you, 
Planchot, honest Planchot, Planchot la Liberte 
as the Companions call you — can it be that you 
have lent a helping hand to that Anti-Patriot 
hound ? ” 

Planchot frowned and shook his head in 
answer to all this abuse; but all that he said in 
reply to it was: “Are you sure that what you 
tell me is true ? ” 

“1 am as sure that it is true,” Vauclair an- 
swered, “as I am sure that I have on my hand 


328 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e itliM. 


four fingers and a thumb. Pascalet can prove 
it to you, for this German, this fellow Surto, 
twice has tried to kill him. And 1 must tell 
you another thing, Planchot — it is no time for 
concealments, now, and you shall know the 
whole truth. Adeline, the dear good girl 
who is with us, is not our child : she is the 
unhappy daughter of this very Marquis d’Am- 
brun. We saved her out of the clutches 
of La Jacarasse. Her own mother and Surto 
had given her to that beast of a woman to do 
anything with — they did not care what — that 
would put her out of the way. What do you 
think of that, Planchot ? ” 

“What do 1 think.?" cried Planchot, sput- 
tering with anger as he picked up his axe. 
“Why, I think 1 have done just what 1 ought 
to have done. And 1 don’t see why 1 shouldn’t 
crack your head open with my axe now that 
I know how you have tricked me into having 
an Aristocrat’s daughter in my house! ’’ 

“And I,’’ answered Vauclair, as he stuck 
the muzzle of his pistol between Planchot’s 
eyes, “would blow your brains out did I not 
know that you would come with me and with 
Pascalet to rescue the Marquis d’Ambrun, and to 
deliver up in his place Surto the murderer and 
the abominable Jacarasse." 


Storming of tl)c King's Castle. 329 


Planchot had plumped down on the shav- 
ings when he saw the pistol levelled at him, 

, but Vauclair kept it pointed straight at his 
I face. Trembling with fear he answered: 
“Don’t point that thing at me. I will do 
whatever you please. But it’s too late now to 
, rescue the Marquis. Paris is full of prisons — 
and how can we ever find the one that he’s in ? 
i And there’s nobody in the house any longer. 

The German — if he is a German — and La 
I Jacarasse, and another woman who said she 
I was the German’s wife— it must have been the 
Marquise, 1 suppose — were clearing everything 
out of it while we were tying the Marquis to 
! take him off; and when we left they left, too. 

! How are we ever going to find them, either, I 
j should like to know ? 1 tell you the track’s lost. ” 

I “All this is worse and worse,” said Vau- 
i clair. “You say yourself that you saw them 
I ransacking the house and carrying off the valu- 
I ables. Why, surely, that must have opened 
! your eyes ? Is it possible that a Patriot like 
Planchot could have had a hand in such doings ? 
What, Planchot, my old master Planchot, a 
robber! ” 

That word robber was too much for Plan- 
chot. His axe fell from his hand and his eyes 
filled with tears. “Forgive me, Vauclair,” he 


330 


^[)c Uebs of tl)e iHibi. 


said; “and don’t say a word about what has 
happened before my wife. I am a wicked 
wretch. I neither thought nor reasoned. What 
can I do to set things right ? ” 

“You can help Adeline to find her father 
again, and to get back again what you helped 
Surto and La Jacarasse to steal.” 

“So I will,” Planchot answered. “You 
are entirely right in the whole matter, Vauclair. 
What could 1 have been thinking of ? 1, Planchot 
la Liberte; 1, who never wronged any one of so 
much as a sou, am to-day no better than a 
robber. To-night, to-morrow, the day after 
to-morrow, as long as 1 have breath in my 
body, 1 will work to clean away this black 
spot from my name. 1 swear to you, Vau- 
clair, that I will search all Paris, house by 
house, to find Adeline’s father alive or dead — 
and to find those robbers, Surto and his harlot 
marquise and La Jacarasse.” 

At seeing his old master so broken down 
by shame and sorrow Vauclair was almost as 
much moved as Planchot was himself. When 
I came down stairs I found them hugging each 
other with tears in their eyes. 

And then we held a sort of council of war 
together and settled on what we were to do 
and how it best might be done. 


®l)e Storming of tl)e Hing s QTastle. 331 


From that day on the three of us had but 
one hope and one aim: to find for Adeline, 
j who lay almost dying of grief and horror, her 
. father and at the same time to find and to 
I punish the three robbers who had stolen her 
{ heritage. 

' 1 will not try to tell you the whole long story 

of how day after day we tramped over Paris on 
‘ our search; often starting out before daylight 
and hunting until night. We divided the city 
j among us, and each of the three hunted through 
his own part street by street; asking such 
; questions as we dared to ask, listening for bits 
of talk that might put us on the scent, looking 
always for the lair of the three murderers and 
for the prison in which the old Marquis was 
. shut up waiting for his death. We would get 
back home at night tired out, more dead than 
I alive; and then we would have to make up a 
I story full of big lies to comfort poor Adeline. 

Fortunately, Adeline only knew that her 
father had been cast into prison. She did not 
know that Surto had murdered her brother, 

Sy and she thought that her mother still lived in 
L the house in the Rue des Douze Fortes and 
I waited in sorrow for her to be found and 
J brought home. We let her keep on believing 
I this, and every night we promised her that 


332 


llebs of tl)e iHibi. 


the next morning we would take her to her 
mother. When the morning came we would 
find a reason for keeping her with us for yet 
another day. As the time passed, and hope 
seemed to have forgotten her, she grew thinner 
and still more pale. 

But in spite of the pain that it gave me to 
see her sorrow, and in spite of my dread of the 
day when she would have to know all and 
might fall dead of grief and horror, 1 loved the 
time that 1 spent with her in Planchof s little 
house in the Impasse Guemenee. Each night 
at supper she waited on me and cut up my 
bread ; but before supper, and that was most 
delightful of all, she cared for my wounded 
hand. Very gently she would unwrap the 
bandage and put on fresh lint, — her delicate 
hands touching me with a touch as soft as if 
she had on silk gloves. As she bent forward 
to wrap the bandage 1 would see the curve of 
her slender neck, and her lovely hair would come 
close to my lips. Then she would take a big 
handkerchief and fold it into a sling, and in 
order to tie the sling properly she would have 
to put her arms around my neck as though she 
were going to embrace me. Her sweet mouth 
would be just in front of my mouth, while her 
frank gentle eyes looking straight into mine 


Storming of tl)c Hing's Qlaetle. 333 


would make my eyelids fall. Sometimes her 
loose curling hair would brush my cheek; and 
as I felt its soft play, and still more as I felt the 
sweet weight of her arms on my shoulders, 
thrills of exquisite delight would run through 
me — which 1 never tried to explain, but only 
enjoyed. 

For days this troubled and weary life, that 
yet had in it for me so much happiness, went 
on and on. We found nothing that could put 
us on the track of the wretches we sought; 
we found no trace of the poor old Marquis; 
we had no news to give Adeline that would 
at all quiet and comfort her. We saw that 
soon we would have to tell her the whole 
truth. 

At last the time for truth-telling came. It 
could be put off no longer — for the Marseilles 
Battalion was to be paid-off and discharged. 
The work that we had come to do was done, 
and well done. Pay for the time we had 
served in Paris had been voted to us by the 
National Assembly, and when that pay was in 
our pockets all would be over with the Battal- 
ion and we would be free to go back again 
into the South. 

On the eve of the pay-day we held a whis- 
pered council in Planchot’s shop, and there the 


334 


®lie Eebs of tl)e iHibi. 


matter was settled. It was decided that while 
Vauclair and 1 went to get our money the 
women should tell poor Adeline everything, 
and should make her understand that the 
best and only safe thing for her to do was to 
go back with us to Avignon and share our 
bread until better times should come. 

I left the house very early in the morning 
that I might certainly be out of the way when 
Adeline’s cry of pain should break forth. Only 
to think of it broke my heart. 

I was at the barracks before Vauclair had 
left the Impasse Guemenee; and the sun was 
just gilding the eaves of the houses as I fell in 
with Margan and Peloux and a half dozen other 
gay Federals — all of whom, as soon as they saw 
me, held up their pouches and Jingled the seven 
crowns they had just received. 

“Hurry up, kid! ” cried Margan. “Make 
your grab, and then come along with us. 
We’re off for a good time. We mean to see 
some of the sights of this big village before we 
leave it for good! ” 

They took me to a corner of the barracks 
where I found a sergeant of the Battalion, and 
with him a paymaster who tinkled seven silver 
crowns into each Federal’s hand. I got into 
the line, and presently I too was paid; and 


0:i)e Storming of tl)c liing’s Caotle. 335 


when I saw those seven silver quoits — which 
slid about among my fingers like eels as 1 tried 
holding them first in one hand and then in 
both — I did not know what to think of myself 
nor where to put my riches. But Margan, 
who was in a hurry to start off for his good 
time, slipped my money into my pocket for 
me; and then, as he caught me under the arm, 
he called out: “Forward, march! Now wedl 
set sail and cut up high ! ” — and off we all 
went together, arm in arm and taking up the 
whole width of the street. 

At the first cabaret with a red cap over the 
door we went in and called for brandied grapes 
— which set us to cackling away like so many 
hens after egg-laying as we walked along. 
We hadn’t the least notion where we were 
going, but that made no difference at all. The 
next tavern we came to, in we all went and 
had two or three glasses all around of some 
fiery stuff. Then we cocked our caps over our 
ears and off we went again. Everywhere the 
Parisians, at sight of our uniform, made way 
for us. Since the Tenth of August they had 
taken good care when they saw a Marseillais 
coming to make room for him by standing 
with their backs against the wall! 

We crossed the river and went through the 


336 


(lElje Ecbs of tl)e iHibi. 


Place du Carrousel, and as we passed the ty- 
rant’s Castle we roared out together: 

Tremblez, tyrans, et vous perfides! 

But for all that 1 was having such a good 
time, every now and then the thought of Ade- 
line in her trouble would come back to me and 
give a sharp tug at my heart. 

Presently we came to another tavern, over 
the door of which was the sign: “A la galere 
d’ Avignon.*' 

“ This is the place we’ve been looking 
for!” shouted Margan. “We’ll go right in. 
Here we can get wine from the Crau, and 
black olives, and cod-fish fried in olive-oil from 
Aix.” 

We were all sharp set by that time, and in 
we crowded in a bunch. 

Getting in there was like getting home. 
The hostess was a jolly girl from Aramon who 
had been carried off to Paris by one of the 
King’s salt-tax collectors. She made us wel- 
come with a will, setting out good strong wine 
with white bread and a pot of olives to stay 
our stomachs until the fricassee should be 
ready, and all the while chattering away to us 
in Proven 9 al. In a twinkling we had bolted 
the wine and bread and olives and had called 


®l)e Storming of tl)e Hinges Clostle. 337 


for more, and while we were eating the second 
round there came to us from the kitchen a de- 
lightful tasty smell as the oil bubbled and 
snapped in the pan. At last in came our host- 
ess, her cheeks as red as tomatoes, carrying a 
great dish of cod-fish as yellow as gold. The 
pieces were at least two inches thick, and as 
the knife touched them they fell apart in flakes 
like flints. With a dash of vinegar it was all 
that a man could desire! 

Peloux, to be sure, said that perhaps it was 
a little too salt. But Margan took him up 
short. “ Saifs all right,” said he. “ Ifs good 
for cuts, and it makes a body dry.” 

That salt cod-fish ^id make us dry! We 
poured down glass Ster glass of red wine 
from the Crau, and after that of white wine 
from Sainte Cecile. Then we took to strong 
brandy and quince cordial; and we ended off 
by drinking all the home-made cordials that 
the Aramon girl had in her house. 

While we were sitting there, filling our- 
selves up like hogsheads, carts full of Aristo- 
crats began to go^mbling by — on their way 
to Versailles, somebody said, because the 
prisons of Paris were jammed full. A howling 
crowd of men and women and children sur- 
rounded the carts, shaking their fists at the pris- 


338 


®lie of tl)^ illibi. 


oners and throwing mud at them. At sight 
of all this we paid our bill in a hurry; and out 
we went again, arm in arm, to see what was 
going on. 

Behind the carts came another sort of pro- 
cession. At the head of it was a woman beat- 
ing a drum, hitting the case much oftener than 
she did the drumhead; then came another 
woman, wearing a red cap and carrying a head 
stuck on a pike, and then a crowd of sans- 
culottes shouting the “^a ira.” 

We turned to go with the crowd; but 
when 1 saw that the head on the pike was 
that of a fair-haired woman, young and beauti- 
ful, everything suddenly seemed to go whirling 
around. 1 remembered my Adeline left un- 
guarded — what if anything should happen to 
her! Peloux and the rest had joined in the 
“^a ira,” and to hide my feelings I tried to 
sing too. But I couldn’t. I burst into tears 
and scarcely could get along. 

Margan was the first to see that there was 
anything wrong with me. “Dear! Dear!” 
said he. “ The kid’s crying. His drink makes 
him dismal.” And then, by way of comfort- 
ing me, 1 suppose, he and Peloux caught me 
under the arms and began to jump me up and 
down to the tune of the “ ^a ira.” 


®l)e Storming ot tl)c King's QIastle. 339 


We came out on an open space on one side 
of which was a high tower. Here the crowd 
began to dance about, yelling; while the more 
furious shook their fists at the grated windows 
— for inside that tower the King and his family 
were prisoners. The woman, carrying the 
head on the pike — it was the head of the Prin- 
cesse de Lamballe, I heard the people around 
me in the crowd saying — took it close up to 
the tower and held it as high as she could 
reach toward the window, while she screamed 
out: “Come down, you wretched old black- 
guard of ajZlapet and kiss this jade. And tell 
your Austrian that her head will grin on a pike 
to-morrow as this one grins to-day!” And 
then the hag suddenly lowered her pike and 
smeared a handful of mud over the poor pretty 
dead woman’s face. 

But what was still worse, just then another 
brute of a woman went close to the window 
and held up before it the Princesse de Lam- 
balle’s still bleeding heart. 

Even Peloux, who never was shocked at 
anything, couldn’t stand that. But he didn’t 
like to own up to what was the matter, and so 
he made an excuse. “See here, Margan,” he 
said, “my throat’s as dry as tinder. Let’s go 
somewhere where 1 can wet it.” 


340 


Eeb0 of tl)e iHibi. 


All right,” we answered in a breath, glad 
enough to get away;, and then in we trooped 
to a tavern called the “ Revolution ” where we 
kissed a good many more glasses of red wine 
and white. As night came on, and we got 
hungry again, we had a grand crespeu for sup- 
per; and then, while we went on drinking, 
Margan sang us a song of his own — that he 
had composed in French, he said, on purpose 
to make the Parisians stare. And they did stare, 
I can tell you ! Off he went with the first two 
verses, telling how the Aristocrats came forth 
from their villages in all their finery to save their 
King and Queen : * 

Quand je partions de nos villages 
J’etions fringants, 

J’etions vetus de pied en cape 
Comme galants. 

Je portions des chapeaux de paille 
Large et pointus 
Avecque des coucardes noires 
De papier blu! 

How the Parisians did clap and stamp and 
shout! But when Margan came to his last 
verse, in which he told how the Marseilles men 
were too much for the Aristocrats, they made 
him sing it over and over again! 


Storming of tl)e liing’o ^aatle. 341 


Pour aparer le roi, la reine 
J’etions venus, 

Mais le bataioun de Marseille 
Nous a battus! 

As for me, my poor head was going round 
and round, and the lights were dancing before 
me, and I didn’t know in the least what 1 was 
doing or where 1 was. 1 took Peloux for 
Vauclair, and 1 babbled on in a stream of talk 
to him ; yet all the while feeling that the words 
1 was saying didn’t mean what 1 wanted to 
say. The others were in much the same fix; 
and by the time that Margan had got through 
with about the twentieth singing of his third 
verse we all felt that we had had drink enough 
— and something to spare! 

Out we went into the streets once more ; but 
we could not walk straight, and at one moment 
we banged against the wall and the next we 
stumbled along in the midway gutter. Drink 
had driven all sense out of me and 1 can’t re- 
member in the least a single street that we 
passed through. My comrades must have 
kept a few gleams of sense about them, for 
they managed to get themselves and me into a 
great big house, all full of lights, that 1 found 
out afterward was a theatre. All that 1 can 
remember about it is that 1 saw a big handsome 
24 


342 


QL[)c Hebs ot ti)e iHibi. 


woman in a lace dress — so thin that she might 
have left it off without anybody’s noticing 
much difference — who shrieked out a song 
in a way to make your ears tingle, and 
who all the time she was singing twisted 
about and shook herself as a dog does when 
he has a bone caught in his jaws. And when 
she got through everybody clapped and clapped 
as if it had been the loveliest song in the 
world. 

When she had finished her howling, Mar- 
gan shouted: “Come along, boys! Let’s 
show the young lady an Avignon round! ” and 
then in the midst of the astounded audience 
standing in the pit, we danced the craziest 
round to the ribald “ Fai, fai, fai!” 

just as on a sunny day in summer the little 
whirlwinds strike the threshing-floor, gather- 
ing up for a moment a column of dust and 
husks and then going as suddenly as they 
came, did we whirl around before the amazed 
Parisians and then vanish through the corridor 
into the dark street. 

But after that performance we had the grace 
to be ashamed of ourselves, and we agreed 
that it was time to go back to the barracks. 
The trouble was, though, that we didn’t in the 
least know which way to go. Paris at all times 


iJlje Storming of tl)e king’s Olastle. 343 


is a puzzle for a Marseilles man, but it is most a 
puzzle at night. 

“Look there,” said Margan, staggering a 
little as he spoke. “Do you see that lantern ? 
Well, 1 know that lantern — 1 saw an Aristocrat 
hung up to it only two nights ago. If we go 
down there past it we’ll get to the river, and 
then we’ll be all right.” 

Margan’s reasoning was so good that we 
went the way he pointed out to us; and it did 
bring us to the river, sure enough. We knew 
where we were, then, and we set to singing as 
we crossed the bridge and turned to walk up 
stream. But all of a sudden there was no 
river in sight, and we were all tangled up 
again in the narrow crooked Paris streets. 

“It’s all right,” said Peloux. “1 know 
where we are. That light off there is the 
barracks lantern, for sure.” 

We headed for the lantern, and as we got 
nearer to it we heard the most infernal racket 
inside. 

“Well, I’m glad we’re back again,” said 
Peloux. ‘ ‘ The boys are having an oldfashioned 
good time.” 

“Why, this isn’t the barracks,” said Mar- 
gan. 

“You’re right, 1 believe it isn’t,” Peloux 


344 


®l)e Eebs of tl)e iUibi. 


answered. “ But no matter. Let’s go in and 
see what’s going on. The doors are open and 
there’s nothing to pay. Come on! ” 

We followed him, and as we were stepping 
across the threshold we met a couple of sans- 
culottes dragging along a man whom they 
threw into a cart waiting on the opposite side 
of the street. 

“Oh,” said Margan, “it’s a tavern; that’s 
what it is. Didn’t you see the drunken man 
those fellows were carrying out ? Pooh ! 
These Parisians can’t hold any wine at all! ” 

As we talked, we went into a great vaulted 
entrance-hall — filled with a shouting, yelling 
crowd — at the far end of which went up a 
stairway to the floor above. Excepting a few 
women, with their sleeves rolled up to their 
elbows like hucksters, all the people about us 
were sans-culottes; and although they were 
armed in every sort of way — with swords and 
pikes and iron bars and even staves — they all 
were armed. 

Every one was pushing toward the stair- 
way ; and as we stood on tip-toe and looked 
over the heads of the crowd we saw that at 
the foot of the stairs was a little red table at 
which sat three sans-culottes, with red caps on 
their heads, looking • as stern and serious as 


®l)e Storminig of tl)e Hing’s (Slastle. 345 


judges. A flickering candle stuck in a bottle 
stood on the table and lighted up the picture. 

While we stood watching, there was a 
movement up in the shadows at the head of 
the stairway; and then down into the light 
came an old priest. He was as pale as death, 
his hands were bound, and he was between 
two jailers who pushed and jostled him to 
make him go faster. As soon as he stood in 
front of the table at which sat the stern-look- 
ing judges, a sharp voice cried out: “He has 
refused the oath.” And then the judges all to- 
gether cried : “ Death ! ” 

On the instant, two or three iron bars 
struck him down. Pikes and swords were 
thrust into him. He was dead. And then 
two sans-culottes dragged out his body to 
throw it in the cart — the same whom we had 
met dragging out the man that we thought 
was drunk. 

This sight so sobered me that 1 dropped 
Margan’s arm and edged my way forward 
through the crowd toward the front rank that 
I might see what was going on. The farther 
I pushed the tighter I was squeezed; and at 
last I was caught fast among a lot of men and 
women all so much taller than I was that even 
on tip-toe I could not get a clear view. But 


346 


€l)e Ecb0 of tl)e iHibi. 


by stooping I managed to see out under the 
elbow of a big National Guard who had a 
bloody iron bar in his hand. 

I was just settled in my place when a young 
and beautiful lady was dragged down the 
stairs. She caught at the balusters, and when 
she was forced in front of the judges she fell 
on her knees and her screams and prayers for 
mercy fairly broke my heart. “ Poor girl! ” I 
thought. “Surely they won’t dare to kill 
her ? ” But in a moment three brutes of women, 
three furies, flung themselves upon her; and 
while two of them scratched gashes in her 
face the third dragged down the waist of her 
dress and like a mad dog bit and tore her 
tender breasts. Saving her from this torture, a 
sans-culotte ran her through with his sword. 

The work went on rapidly. One after 
another, quickly, prisoners were dragged down 
the stairs ; sentence was passed on them in a 
breath ; and in another breath they were killed 
and carried away to the cart. 

All this while the big National Guard in 
front of me had not stirred. Suddenly he 
stepped forward, and in the same instant I 
heard the high-pitched feeble voice of an old 
man, a voice that 1 well knew, crying out: 
“Ah, there you are, my good and faithful fel- 


®l)e Storming of tl)e Hing’s Qlagtle. 347 


low. Save me! Save me!” In answer to 
that cry, the big National Guard raised his iron 
bar and brought it down with a terrible blow 
on the head of the poor little old man who was 
begging for his life. 

Then I recognised big Surto : at last he had 
murdered his master, the Marquis d’Ambrun ! 
As the Marquis fell. La Jacarasse came out 
from the crowd, and with her pig-killing knife 
coolly began to cut off the gold buttons from 
his coat. Surto stepped forward and stamped 
on the face of his master with his hob-nailed 
shoes. 

With one bound I was in front of the mon- 
ster, and as I shook my fist at him I cried: 
“He is a murderer, an Anti-Patriot! Arrest 
him ! ” But instantly a half dozen of the men 
and women, of the hundreds who were shriek- 
ing and howling with delight at the bloodshed, 
seized me and dragged me before the judges. 
“Thou art the traitor!” they cried. “Thou 
art the Aristo ! Death ! Death ! ” 

Happily for me, one of the judges rose from 
his place and laid his hand upon my head, and 
so protected me from the iron bars already 
raised. When the anger of the murderous 
gang was a little quieted he asked me to give 
an account of myself, and to tell why 1 wanted 


348 


QLi)t of tl)e iHibi. 


to revenge the death of a Marquis who had 
come from the other end of the country to help 
the King. 

I began to answer, speaking in as good 
French as I could muster: “I am a Federal 
Patriot belonging to the Marseilles Battalion.” 

“Death! Death!” shrieked the women, 
breaking in on me; while a sans-culotte who 
had drawn a paper from my pocket and 
glanced at it cried out: “Look here! Read 
this bit of paper — it is his death-warrant! ” 

It was Monsieur Randoulet’s letter recom- 
mending me to Canon Jusserand. The judge 
took the paper, and for a moment there was 
silence. Up on the stairs above us a line of 
prisoners was waiting until my affair should 
be settled to be brought downward to death. 

The sans-culotte judge frowned as he read 
the paper, and 1 was sure that I was lost. 
Truly enough, the recommendation of one 
priest to another priest was a death-warrant in 
those days. 1 looked around and called to 
Margan and Peloux to come forward and prove 
the truth of what I had said ; but the two, hav- 
ing lost sight of me, must have staggered out 
into the street thinking that they would find 
me there. 

“Death! Death!” shrieked the sans-cu- 


®l)c Stormiitig of tlic Hing’s Qlastlc. 349 


lottes, crowding around me and raising their 
iron bars to beat out my brains as soon as the 
judge took his hand off my head. 

But just then a voice from a strange quarter 
was raised in my defense. “Wait! I will tell 
you the truth in this matter. I swear to speak 
the truth — 1 who so soon shall appear before 
my God! ” 

It was one of the prisoners on the stairs 
who was speaking. As the judges turned to- 
ward him he went on: “ That unhappy boy 
most certainly is a Federal Patriot, a member 
of the Marseilles Battalion. I know it only too 
well. That very boy gave the information to 
the gendarmes of the Nation which led to my 
arrest on the bridge of Saint-Jean d’Ardieres. 
In proof of what 1 say, tell him to show you the 
medal of Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours that 1 
gave him then.” 

Then 1 knew who it was that was speak- 
ing for me : it was the old shepherd, the Bishop 
of Mende. 

I put my hand into my pocket and pulled 
out the medal and gave it to the judges. They 
looked at it for a moment, and then said to- 
gether: “What the boy has said is the truth. 
He is a Patriot, a Marseillais.” 

“Then let him be off and join his Battal- 


350 


of tl)c iHibi, 


ion,” cried a red-coiffed woman; and, seizing 
me by the shoulder, she thrust me into the 
crowd toward the door. 

I wanted to thank the Bishop of Mende who 
had saved me from death; but’ that could not 
be. As 1 turned around 1 saw him kneeling — 
then the iron bars fell and he dropped in a heap ! 

1 looked for Surto and La Jacarasse, deter- 
mined to revenge myself on the two monsters; 
but they had slipped away during the stir 
caused by my affair, and no doubt had gone 
to join the worthless Adelaide — the traitress 
Marquise. 

There was nothing left for me but to come 
away too. 1 worked along through the crowd 
and got out at last to the street; and glad I 
was to be in the quiet of the dark streets, and 
alone. The sight of Adeline’s father had stirred 
me deeply. 1 seemed still to hear ringing in 
my ears the sound of his weak, piping, old- 
man’s voice; the very same voice that had 
called out to the swine-herd who had given 
me such a whack when 1 picked up the cab- 
bage-stalk: “Well done! Well done! What 
is that little rascal doing there ? Does he want 
to take the food out of the mouths of my 
pigs?” And now 1 had seen that old man 
murdered by his own servant in cold blood ! 


®l)e Storming of tl)e Hing's Qlastle. 351 


By that time I was no longer a staggering 
drunkard. I was entirely sober. A great 
fright had come to me. Death had been close 
to my shoulder — so close that 1 had felt her 
cold breath upon my neck. The fumes of 
wine had been driven out of my brain. And 
suddenly, there in the darkness and silence, all 
that had happened to me during that day, and 
most vividly what had happened during these 
last moments of it, flashed before my eyes. 
As I saw it all there came over me a fear, an 
anguish, a shame, no words can tell. How 
could I ever confess to Lazuli, to Vauclair, to 
Adeline, how I had passed that day ? They 
could call me anything bad, and it would be 
true. 1 could make no denial. Very likely 
they would have nothing more to do with me 
— would turn me out of doors. 

Then 1 thought of my money, and began 
to hunt in my pockets for it — every sou of 
it was gone! I must have spent it in my 
stuffing and guzzling. Yet that money did 
not belong to me to spend. It really be- 
longed to Vauclair. I owed it to him. Just 
out of pure goodness and kindness of heart, he 
had sheltered me and cared for me for six 
long months. It was his money that had gone 
in my gluttony and drunkenness. 


352 


®l)e Uebs of tl)e iHibi. 


What a sin I had committed! Truly I did 
deserve to be looked down upon by Vauclair 
— drunkard that I was! Lazuli would be in 
tears. Poor Adeline, in all her bitter trouble, 
would have more trouble and of my making. 
She would be ashamed to touch me, to speak 
to me. Never could 1 dare to see them in such 
pain and sorrow because of my wickedness; 
never could I dare to face them again' after 
what I had done. Better would it have been 
had the Bishop of Mende held his tongue; bet- 
ter had the sans-culottes dashed out my brains. 
That would have ended all! 

In an unending bat-like whirl these dark 
thoughts flew round and round in my soul. 
On I tramped, recklessly, aimlessly. I turned 
one street corner after another without know- 
ing where I was going. 1 tried to hold the 
tears back, but they kept rolling down my 
cheeks. Never had I suffered so bitterly since 
that night when I came back to the hut of La 
Garde and found myself without father or 
mother, alone. The same despair seized me 
that had seized me then, and the same dark 
thought came to me — the river! The river 
would not be frozen like the pond at La Garde 
— and oh, the good bed that it would make 
for me! Where was that good kind river? 


®l)c Storming of tl)e Hing’s Castle. 353 


All that I wanted was to find it and throw 
myself into it — and so be forgotten of all the 
world. 

As I looked around me I saw that the gutter 
was running red with blood — the blood of the 
unhappy wretches they were killing in the big 
building out of which 1 had just come — and 1 
knew that this red stream must flow down to 
the river. 1 only had to follow it and it would 
lead me to the great river for which 1 so longed. 

I stepped out quickly, but carefully kept 
sight of the little red stream that rippled on 
leading me to my deliverance. And presently, 
turning a corner, 1 dimly saw the river before 
me — overlaid by the friendly morning mist 
that veiled from me my dismal grave. And 
then, as before at the pond of La Garde, I drew 
back for a spring. 

At that very moment I heard the rattle of 
drums. I hesitated. 1 stopped. Off on the 
other side of the river, in front of what had been 
the King’s Castle, drums were beating the as- 
sembly — just as they did on the morning when 
we made the attack. What could that drum- 
call mean, I wondered. Could it be for the 
departure of the Marseilles Battalion ? Could 
it mean that the tyrant had come back ? But, 
whatever it meant, it put fresh life into me. 


354 


Eebs of tl)e iUibi. 


Instead of jumping into the river I hurried 
across it to the drums. 

When I came in front of the Castle I found 
a platform set up on which were three Patriots. 
One of them was waving the flag of the Na- 
tion, blue, white and red; another held up a 
placard on which was written: “The Country 
is in Danger! the third had before him on a 
table a book in which he was writing down 
the names of volunteers for the army of the 
Revolution. 

Men of all ages were pressing forward to be 
enlisted : old fellows with grizzled moustaches, 
youths, boys like myself. They all were of 
the poorer class, and as they gave their names 
to be written down they gave everything that 
they had to give — their blood and their life. 
Each man, as he passed in front of the altar of 
his Country and placed his name on the roll 
of his Country’s army, shouted “Vive la Na- 
tion! ” — and so went on to take his place under 
the command of a sergeant who ranged the 
volunteers in line. As each fresh company 
was formed its men were given guns and pow- 
der and ball : that was the whole of their ac- 
coutrement. Then came the order: “For- 
ward, march!” — and then and there they 
started on a forced march to the frontier. 


Storming of tl)c King's Castle. 355 


My heart thrilled. The Country in danger ? 
What! We had pulled down the King and 
smashed his throne to bits and now outsiders 
were coming to set up King and throne again 
and to ravage our land! That should never 
be! On the instant my mind was made up. 
I marched to the platform and gave in my 
name as a volunteer, and shouted “ Vivo la Na- 
cioun ! ” as I turned to take my place in the 
ranks. 

“Stop, citizen,” said the Patriot who was 
writing down the names. “ Here is your pay 
for a month,” and he handed me three crowns. 
And then, looking hard at me, he went on: 
“ Surely I know your face. Haven’t you been 
living lately with my good neighbour Plan- 
chot.?” 

“Yes,” I answered. 

Hearing Planchot’s name startled and moved 
me. Right away I seemed to see Adeline 
and Vauclair and Lazuli, and fear and shame 
and sorrow came back into my heart and the 
tears came close to my eyes. But I held my- 
self together and forced back the sob that was 
mounting in my throat — for it never should be 
said that a Marseilles volunteer had wept before 
a Parisian moustache! 

And so, having steadied myself, I said to 


356 


QL[)c Ecb0 of iUibi. 


the Patriot: “As you are our neighbour, I 
want you to say good-bye for me to my peo- 
ple at home and to give them these three 
crowns. Please say to them : ‘ Pascalet sends 
you these three crowns in remembrance of 
your great kindness to him. He is now a 
volunteer in the Army of the Revolution. The 
country is in danger and he has started for the 
frontier.’ ” 

As 1 spoke, I placed ' my three crowns in 
the Patriot’s hand — and with them I seemed to 
lay down also my load of sorrow and of bitter 
shame. 

The bright sunshine was gilding the eaves 
of the King’s Castle about which pretty blue 
pigeons were flying blithely. Our drums rat- 
tled the quick-step. My company moved — 
and 1 was started on my march for the Frontier 
of the North! 

Old Pascal was silent for some moments, 
and we all were silent with him. Even the 
chattering Materoun, for once in his life, was 
too deeply interested to wag his tongue. Then 
Pascal sighing a little, went on. 

With my regiment, 1 was back in Paris a 
year later to the very day — the sixteenth of 


Storming of tl)c Hing’s Castle. 357 


Fructidor in the year II. We had fought at 
Valmy, and on the borders of the Rhine even 
into Holland, driving the last Prussian out of 
the territory of the Republic. Then our regi- 
I ment was ordered to the South ; and we were 
halting in Paris to enlist more men before join- 
ing the Army of Italy. 

That sixteenth of Fructidor I was stationed 
on guard at the guillotine that was chopping 
off heads on the Place de la Revolution — stand- 
ing with shouldered arms on the scaffold, close 
to the National Knife. I was half sick with 
the horrible doings going on there, and with 
my back to the guillotine I stood looking out 
over the eager shouting crowd. 

From where they turned a far corner, I 
could see the tumbrils full of condemned Aristo- 
crats as they slowly made their way through 
the crowd to the scaffold steps. Some of the 
Aristocrats were very brave, looking as cool 
and quiet as if they were going to a festival; 
but others, poor things! seemed more dead 
than alive — so pale, so broken, that to see 
them fairly drew my heart out of my body. 
But it made no difference how they looked or 
how they behaved. Up the steps they came — 
and the big knife, without resting, cut off head 
after head. At each fall of the knife the whole 
25 


358 


ot tl)e ittibi. 


scaffold shook, and a cold shiver ran through 
me — while I longed and longed to be quit of 
my horrible task. 

At the end of what seemed to me a very 
long time I saw the last cart coming, and with 
only three people in it: two women and a 
man. It was nearly over, I thought. 1 would 
have to hear the fall of the knife and feel the 
jar of the scaffold only thrice more. Full of 
pity, 1 watched the on-coming cart. 

As it rounded the end of the scaffold, pass- 
ing right beneath me, I saw that the man 
crouching in one corner suddenly started and 
then leaned still more forward as though to 
hide his face; as if he had recognised me, and 
did not want me to recognise him. I looked 
hard at him, and as 1 looked my heart gave a 
bound — it was Surto! In another moment I 
saw that the two crouching women were the 
Marquise Adelaide and La Jacarasse! 

Oh, that time the guillotine was doing good 
work! That time I did not turn my back as 
the knife fell! With burning eyes I looked at 
them as they were pushed out of the cart and 
up the scaffold steps. I stared hard. I wanted 
to make sure of them. But I had not made a 
mistake: their time had come! 

Surto, coward that he was, drew back so 


Storming of tl)e king’s Castle. 359 


that the women might go first. The Marquise 
trembled and groaned and muttered her prayers. 
La Jacarasse squealed like a sow that already 
feels the knife stuck in her throat. The execu- 
tioner was used to all that. He had no time 
to waste. He caught hold of Surto and pushed 
him down in front of the red block. 1 tried to 
speak. I wanted to curse them for all their 
crimes. But the words stuck in my dry throat, 
and all that I could do was to point to the 
sharp knife shining above them. The Marquise, 
looking upward, fell on her knees with a bitter 
cry; and even 1 started back, troubled and 
amazed. It was not the sight of the knife that 
so thrilled us; but the sight, above the knife 
on the cross-piece of the guillotine, of a name 
that cried vengeance: 

ADELINE. 

Three times the great knife fell. Three times 
the heavy stroke shook the scaffold. Three 
times there fell into the basket a head with eye- 
lids that still fluttered and with jaws, still work- 
ing, that bit the bloody saw-dust. 

'‘Well done! Oh, well done!” cried La 
Mie, jumping up and clapping her hands. 
“ How I wish I had been there to see them get 


360 


Ee 50 of tl)e illibi. 


their deserts! To think of that awful Marquise 
— who had her son and her husband murdered 
and who turned over her daughter to La Jaca- 
rasse! It seems impossible! ” 

“And that Surto,” put in Lou Materoun. 
“ What a Dutch devil he was! But, to tell the 
truth, I don’t believe that he was the only one 
who killed his master in those days. We all 
know of others who got their hands on what 
belonged to the Aristos who emigrated or were 
guillotined — and they are the very ones who 
now-a-days wear green ribbons with a fleur-de- 
lys in their buttonholes, and are forever taking 
off their hats to every nobleman who goes by.” 

“Those times had to be,” said my grand- 
father, as he drew the cork out of his bottle of 
malmsey. 

“Yes, France was like a tree that needed 
pruning,” added Lou Materoun. 

And so each one had his say, while La Mie 
took the chestnuts off the stove and handed 
them around. 

While I had been sitting still in my corner 
the cat had gone to sleep on my lap and 1 did 
not dare to move for fear of waking her. But 
my tongue was burning to ask a question; and 
after they all were quiet, with their mouths full 
of chestnuts, I ventured to speak. 


®l)e Storming of tl)e king’s tootle. 361 


‘Mf you please, Pascal?” 1 said. 

“Well, little man, what is it?” he an- 
swered. 

“If you please, Pascal, did you never see 
dear little Adeline again ? ” 

“Never, child.” 

He was quiet for so long that I feared that 
was the end of it. But at last he spoke. “ As 
I told you, 1 went off to the army of Italy with 
General Bonaparte — who afterwards became 
the great Emperor Napoleon. 1 went through 
all the wars with him. 1 followed him through 
hundreds and hundreds of battles, which were 
hundreds and hundreds of victories. Under him 
we conquered Italy, Egypt, Austria, Prussia, Ger- 
many, Spain, Russia. We only stopped when 
there was no more earth to conquer. 1 ate 
wheat-bread in Rome and rye-bread in Berlin. 

I made my bivouac in Vienna and lighted my 
camp-fire beside the palace walls. 1 sharpened 
my sword on the stones at Jaffa. 1 picked figs 
in the gardens of Saragoza. 1 ate Russian 
horse-ribs roasted in the fire of Moscow. 1 fol- 
lowed the great Napoleon through everything, 
and 1 was with him at the last at the battle of 
Mont-Saint-Jean. It was then, finding himself 
betrayed, that he vanished. But he will come 
again! He surely will come again! 


362 


®l)e of tl)e illibi. 


“And as to Adeline, not a day of my life 
has passed without my thinking of her — 
though only once 1 heard of her in the course 
of all my wars. 

“It was in Egypt, on the third ofThermi- 
dor, in the year VI. We had just finished kill- 
ing all those thousands of Mamelukes. The 
sand was covered with their bodies as far as a 
man’s eyes could see. 1 was tired out after so 
much fighting; and while 1 was resting my- 
self, sitting in the shade of the first step of the 
highest Pyramid in Egypt, a drummer of our 
army came up to me. ‘ If I’m not wrong 
about it, comrade,’ said he, ‘you’re Pascalet, 
the son of La Patine ? ’ 

“ ‘Oh, yes, that’s me, my good Celegre,’ 1 
answered. ‘And I’d know you anywhere by 
the way you speak. How do you happen to 
be here ? And when did you leave Malemort ? 
Tell me what my people are doing there.’ 

“So Celegre sat down beside me there on 
the Pyramid and gave me all the news from 
home. My mother had given me a brother 
named Lange, he said; and two years later 
my father, poor fellow! had died. But 1 had 
no need to worry about my mother, Celegre 
went on, because the daughter of the old Mar- 
quis d’Ambrun, Mademoiselle Adeline — who 


Storming of tl)c Hing’s (Eaotle. 363 


since had died a nun in the Ursuline Convent 
at Avignon — had made her a present of the 
hut at La Garde with a bit of land around it, 
and of a larger bit of land at Pati, and of a snug 
little house in the village in the Rue Basse; and 
,with all that property my mother and my little 
brother lived very comfortably indeed. ‘ And 
there’s somebody to look after her, too,’ Ce- 
legre went on ; ‘a man in Avignon, a joiner, 
named Vauclair. It was he who brought out 
to her the deeds, written by the notary’s hand, 
that made her sure of Mademoiselle Adeline’s 
gifts ; and he is as kind to her as if he were 
her own son. He told me that you and he 
marched up to Paris together in the Marseilles 
Battalion, and he thinks the world of you to 
this day. 

“ 'What a good fellow he is, that Vauclair! 
And his wife Lazuli and his boy Clairet are 
made of just the same good dough! 1 went to 
see them as 1 passed through Avignon; and 
after I’d said 1 was from Malemort, and was a 
neighbour of your mother’s, and knew you, 
they couldn’t do too much for me and every- 
thing in their house was mine. They made 
me take breakfast and dinner and supper with 
them ; and all the time they talked about Pas- 
calet, their own dear little Pascalet; and they 


3^4 


®l)e llebs of tl)e iUiM. 


cried like children — just as you are doing 
now.’ 

“And it is true,” Pascal said, as he rose to 
get his glass of malmsey, “that the tears had 
come as 1 listened to all that Celegre had told 
me — but the sands of the desert can drink 
many tears.” 

I think that we all understood how deep 
was Pascal’s feeling as he sai^ these words. 
No one spoke for a minute or more; and then, 
of course, the speaker was Lou Materoun. 

“There’s just one thing, Pascal,” said Lou 
Materoun, “that 1 must ask you to clear up 
for me. Just now, when you were speaking 
about the great Napoleon, you said ‘ He surely 
will come again.’ If he’s still alive. I’d like to 
know what our picture at home means — the 
one on which is written : ‘ The return of Napo- 
leon’s ashes ’ ? I always thought that that pic- 
ture showed how they brought him back from 
Saint Helena and buried him in the Invalides, 
up at Paris.” 

“Hold your tongue, chuckleheaded don- 
key!” answered Pascal, angrily. “Don’t you 
know that the Bourbons got up that funeral to 
make people think he was dead ? But he is 
not dead. 1 who speak to you will swear — 
and 1 am ready to put my hand into the fire if 


®l)e Storming of tlie liing’s (ilaotle. 365 


I swear falsely — that within these three years 
past I have seen him and spoken with him. 
It is a matter about which there can be no mis- 
take. It happened in broad daylight in my 
field at Pati — that lies near, you know, to the 
place they call Caesar’s Camp. 

“ I had been spading that field to get rid of 
the couch-grass,' and while I was standing rest- 
ing 1 saw a strange man coming toward me with 
a rake on his shoulder. He walked straight 
into my field, and when he was within ten 
paces of me he stopped and said : ' Good and 
brave soldier of the Empire, show me the way 
to Caesar’s Camp.’ 

“And as he stood there, plain before me 
in the sunlight, I knew him — it was the Em- 
peror! 

“I was so upset, so dazed, that I did not 
know which end I was standing on. And all 
I could say, as I pointed out the way to him, 
was: ‘There — straightahead.’ 

“The Emperor turned and left me, crossing 
from corner to corner of my field. And since 
that day” — Pascal spoke these words very 
solemnly — “I have never given a single hoe- 
stroke or spade-stroke where his footsteps 
passed! You may go up there, if you like, 
and you will find in my field a grassy cross- 


366 


Eebs of tl)e illibi. 


wise path. That path marks the footsteps of 
the great Napoleon. I tell you, he is still 
alive! ” 

Old Pascal drained his glass of malmsey; 
and then, the meeting being over, each man 
kindled his lantern and La Mie blew out the 
light. 


( 13 ) 


THE END. 




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